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DU 

ROMAN CONTEMPORAIN 


ROMANC1STS 


OF THIS EDITION, 

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THE ROMANCISTS 

HENRI MURGER 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 




































ROMAN CONTEMPORAIN 


HENRI MURGER 


B O HE MIA N L IFF 


TEN ETCHINGS 


PHILADELPHIA 

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COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY GEORGE BARRIE & SON 



FIRST CCPY, 

Ar ' F r^r~ Ar- 

v o o. 


THIS EDITION OF 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 

HAS BEEN COMPLETELY TRANSLATED 

BY 

GEORGE B. IVES 

/ 

THE ETCHINGS ARE BY 

CHARLES-LOUIS COURTRY 

AND DRAWINGS BY 


PIERRE-MARIE-ALFRED MONTADER 















BOHEMIAN LIFE 




PREFACE 


The Bohemians who figure in the following pages have 
no connection with the Bohemians whose names the petty 
playwrights of the boulevards have made synonymous with 
pickpockets and assassins. Nor are they recruited from 
among the bear-leaders , sword-swallowers , dealers in 
watch-guards , professors of the you win at every throw, 
denizens of the shallow waters of usury , and the thousand 
other vague and mysterious tradesmen whose principal 
business is to have none , and who are always ready to do 
everything except good. 

The Bohemians of whom this book treats are not a race 
born to-day ; they have existed in all ages and everywhere , 
and can trace their descent from illustrious sources. In 
Grecian antiquity , to go back no farther in their genealogy , 
there existed a celebrated Bohemian who , living at hap- 
hazard from day to day , roamed through the flower-strewn 
fields of Ionia , eating the bread of charity , and at night 
hung up by the fireside of hospitality the melodious lyre 
that had sung of the Loves of Helen and the Fall of 
Troy. Desce7iding the ladder of the ages , modern Bohemia 
finds ancestors in all the artistic and literary epochs. In 

v 


VI 


PREFACE 


the Middle Ages it continues the Homeric tradition with 
the minstrels and improvisatores, the children of gay and 
lightsome mind , all the sweet-voiced vagabonds of the 
Touranian fields ; all the vagrant muses, who with the 
mendicanf s wallet and the troubadour's harp on their 
backs, wandered, singing, through the meadows of the 
lovely region where Clemence Isaure’s eglantine was des- 
tined to bloom. 

In the epoch which serves as a period of transition from 
the days of chivalry to the dawn of the Renaissance, Bo- 
hemia continues to haunt all the high-roads of the kingdom 
and begins to appear in the streets of Paris. Its herald 
is Master Pierre Gringoire, friend of the beggars and 
enemy of fasting ; gaunt and starved as a man may well 
be whose life is simply one long Lent, he walks the city 
streets, with his nose in the air like a dog rising from the 
scent, sniffing the odor of the kitchens and cookshops ; his 
eyes, instinct with gluttonous craving, make the hams that 
hang on hooks in the porkshop windows grow thin simply 
by looking at them, while he jingles — in his imagination, 
not in his pockets, alas ! — the ten crowns that messieurs 
the £chevins have promised him as payment for the very 
pious and very devout farce he has composed for the the- 
atre in the great hall of the Palais de fustice. Beside 
that pitiful, melancholy profile of Es?neralda’ s lover, the 
chronicles of Bohemia can evoke a companion of less as- 
cetic and more frolicsome humor, Master Francois Villon, 
to-wit, the lover of la belle qui fut haultmiere. Poet and 
vagabond par excellence was he ! and his poetry, largely 
imaginative, doubtless because of the presentiments which 
the ancients attribute to their vates, was incessantly beset 
by a strange dwelling upon the gallows, whereon the said 


PREFACE 


Vll 


Villon was one day very near having his neck stretched 
with he?np for having attempted to inspect too closely the 
color of the king’s coins. This same Villon , who had 
more than once outrun the sheriff s posse sent in pursuit of 
him , this uproarious guest of the brothels on Rue Pierre- 
Lescot, , this hanger-on at the court of the Duke of Egypt ', 
this Salvator Rosa of poetry, wrote elegiacs whose heart- 
breaking sentiment and sincere tone move the most pitiless , 
arid cause them to forget the knave , the vagabond and the 
rake in presence of that muse wet with its own tears. 

However , among all those whose little known works are 
familiar only to those people in whose eyes French litera- 
ture began to be before <( Malherbe arrived,” Francois 
Villon has had the honor of being one of the most ruth- 
lessly pillaged, even by the bright lights of the modern 
Parnassus. They have flung themselves on the poor man’s 
carcass, and coined glory with his humble treasure. There 
are ballads written by the Bohemian rhapsodist on cold 
days in winter, at street corners, or in the gutter, amorous 
stanzas improvised in the hovel where la belle qui fut 
haultmiere removed her golden girdle for every comer, 
which to-day metamorphosed into fashionable madrigals 
redolent of musk and amber, figure in the armorial album 
of many an aristocratic Chloris. 

But the great epoch of the Renaissance opens . Michael 
Angelo climbs the scaffolding of the Sis tine Chapel and 
gazes with a thoughtful air at the youthful Raphael as- 
cending the steps of the Vatican, carrying under his arm 
the sketches of the Loggia. Benvenuto is meditating upon 
his Perseus, Ghiberti is carving the doors of the Baptistery 
at the same time that Donatello is setting up his marble 
figures on the bridges of the Arno ; and while the city of 


Vlll 


PREFACE 


the Medicis is vying in the production of Chefs-d’oeuvre 
of art with the city of Leo X. and fulius II., Titian and 
Veronese are bringing honor to the city of the Doges ; St. 
Mark's contests the palm with St. Peter's. 

This fever of genius which suddenly breaks out with 
epidemic violence in the Italian peninsula, spreads its glori- 
ous contagion throughout Europe. Art, the rival of God, 
stands on an equal footing with kings. Charles V. stoops 
to pick up litian's pencil and Francois I. holds a recep- 
tion in the printing-office where Etienne Dolet is, for aught 
we know, correcting the proofs of Pantagruel. 

In the midst of this resicrrection of the intelligence, 
Bohemia continues, as in the past, to seek a bone and a 
niche, as Balzac expresses it. Clement Marot, having 
become a frequenter of the antechambers of the Louvre , 
becomes, even before he has been a king's favorite, the fa- 
vorite of the fair Diane, whose smile illumined three reigns. 
From the boudoir of Diane de Poitiers, the poet's unfaith- 
ful muse passes to Marguerite de Valois, a perilous favor 
for which Marot paid by imprisonment. Almost at the 
same period ’ another Bohemian, whose childhood had been 
caressed by the kisses of an epic muse on the strand of 
Sorrento — Tasso-. — entered the court of the Duke of Per- 
rara as Marot entered that of Francois I. ; but, less for- 
tunate than the lover of Diane and Marguerite , the author 
of Jerusalem atoned for his audacious lobe for a daughter 
of the house of Este by the loss of his reason and his genius. 

The religious wars and political tempests that signalized 
the arrival of the Medicis in France did not stay the flight 
of art. At the moment that fean Goujon , who had found 
the pagan chisel of Phidias, was struck down by a bullet 
on the scaffold of the Innocents, Ronsard found the lyre 


PREFACE 


IX 


of Pindar , and founded , with the assistance of his Pleiad, 
the great French lyric school. That school of the spring- 
time was succeeded by the reaction of Malherbe and his 
followers , who expelled from the language all the exotic 
charms that their predecessors had tried to naturalize upon 
Parnassus. It was a Bohemian , Mathurin Regnier , who 
defended one of the last boulevards of lyric poetry , attacked 
by the phalanx of rhetoricians and grammarians , who de- 
clared Rabelais a barbarian and Montaigne obscure. It 
was this same Mathurin Regnier the cynic , who , adding 
new knots to the satirical scourge of Horace, cried indig- 
nantly as he reflected upon the manners of his time : 

Honor is an old-fashioned saint , whom men no longer worship. 

In the seventeenth century the muster-roll of Bohemia 
contains the names of some of the literary lights of the 
reigns of Louis XIII. and Louis XIV.; it has members 
among the wits of the Hotel Rambouillet where it collabo- 
rates in the composition of the Guirlande de Julie; it has 
the right of entry at the Palais Cardinal, where it col- 
laborates in the tragedy of Marianne with the poet-minister, 
the Robespierre of the monarchy. It strews with madri- 
gals the alcove of Marion de Lorme and pays court to 
Ninon under the trees on Place Roy ale ; it breakfasts in 
the morning at the Goinfres tavern or at the Ep£e Royale, 
and sups at night at the Due de Joyeuse’ s table ; it fights 
duels under the lamps for the sonnet of Urania against 
the sonnet of fob. Bohemia makes love and war and 
even tries its hand at diplomacy ; and, in its old age, weary 
of adventures, it makes a poetic version of the Old and 
New Testament, figures largely on all the lists of crown 
livings , and, well nourished upon fat prebe?ids, takes its 


X 


PREFACE 


seat upon the bench of bishops or upon a chair at the 
Academy , founded by one of its number . 

It was during the transition from the sixteenth to the 
eighteenth century that those two great geniuses appeared \ 
whom their respective nations still oppose to each other in 
the struggles of their literary rivalry — Moliere and Shakes- 
peare ; those illustrious Bohemians whose destinies pre- 
sent only too many points of resemblance. 

The most eminent names in the literature of the eigh- 
teenth century also are to be found in the archives of Bo- 
hemia, which can lay claim among the illustrious men of 
that epoch, to fean-facques Rousseau and D’ Alembert, the 
foundling of the parvis of Notre-Dame , and, among the 
more obscure, to Malfilat?‘e and Gilbert ; two over-esti- 
mated reputations ; for the inspiration of the first was 
simply the dim reflectio7i of the pale lyricism of fean- Baptiste 
Rousseau, and of the other, simply a combination of im- 
potent pride with a hatred which had not even the excuse of 
initiative and sincerity, as it was only the paid instru?nent 
of the rancor and animosities of a party. 

We have now concluded this summary sketch of Bo- 
hemia in the different periods of its existence, a prelude 
strewn with illustrious names which we have designedly 
placed in the forefront of this book to put the reader on 
his guard against any false assumption that he might 
otherwise make, upon espying the name Bohemians, which 
has long been given to classes of persons whom those whose 
manners and language we have tried to sketch, deem it a 
point of honor not to resemble. 

To-day, as formerly, every man who enters upon an 
artistic career, without other means of subsistence than 
art itself, will be compelled to pass through the paths of 


PREFACE 


xi 


Bohemia. The majority of our contemporaries who ex- 
hibit the finest blazonry of art are Bohemians ; and in 
their tranquil and prosperous renown , they often remem- 
ber , and perhaps regret the time when , as they climbed the 
green hill of youth , they had, in the sunshine of their 
twenty years, no other fortune than courage, which is the 
virtue of the young, and hope, which is the treasure of the 
poor. 

For the benefit of the anxious reader, of the timorous 
bourgeois, of all those who can never have too many dots 
to the Vs of a definition, we will repeat in the form of an 
axiom : 

<f Bohemia is the stage of artistic life ; it is the preface 
to the Academy, the Hotel-Dieu or the Morgue.” 

We will add that Bohemia does not exist and is not 
possible, except in Paris. 

Like every social stratum , Bohemia includes different 
varieties, diverse species which are themselves subdivided, 
and which it will be well to classify. 

We will begin with unknown Bohemia, the most numer- 
ous subdivision. It is made up of the great family of poor 
artists, doomed to submit to the law of incognito, because 
they do not know or cannot find an entering wedge of pub- 
licity to attest their existence in the world of art, and to 
prove, by what they already are, what they may be some 
day. They are the race of persistent dreamers, to whom 
art has become a faith, not a trade ; enthusiastic men of 
strong convictions, with whom the mere sight of a chef 
d’oeuvre is enough to bring on a fever, and whose loyal 
hearts beat high before whatever is beautiful, without ask- 
ing the name of the master or the school. That portion 
of Bohemia finds its recruits among the young men of 


Xll 


PREFACE 


who??i it is said that they are young men of promise, and 
among those who keep the promises they make , but who , 
from thoughtlessness , timidity or ignorance of practical life 
imagine that all is said when the work is finished , and 
wait for public admiration and wealth to enter their 
apartments by escalade and acts of burglary . They 
live , so to speak , on the edge of society , in isolation and in- 
dolence. Petrified in art , they take literally the symbolical 
language of the academic dithyramb concerning a halo 
about the brow of poets, and, being persuaded that they are 
emitting flames in the darkness, they wait for the public 
to come and seek them. We once knew of a small school 
composed of artists of this strange type, so strange that one 
can hardly believe in its existence ; they called themselves 
disciples opart for art’s sake. According to those artless 
creatures, art for art's sake consisted in deifying one 
another, in refusing to assist chance, which did not even 
know their address, and in waiting for pedestals to come 
and place themselves under their feet. 

This is, as everyone will see, stoicism reduced to an 
absurdity. And so we declare once more, in order to be 
believed, that, in the heart of unknown Bohemia, such 
creatures do exist, whose misery arouses a feeling of com- 
passion which your good sense soon compels you to banish ; 
for if you calmly call their attention to the fact that we are 
living in the nineteenth century, that the hundred-sou piece 
is the Empress of mankind, and that boots do not fall all 
polished from the sky, they turn their backs on you and 
call you a bourgeois. 

They are logical, however, in their insane heroism ; 
they utter neither shrieks nor groans and passively submit 
to the harsh , obscure destiny which they create for the77i- 


PREFACE 


xiii 

selves. They die , for the most part \ of that disease to 
which science dares not give its real name , want. And 
yet , if they chose , many of them might escape that fatal 
catastrophe which puts an end to their lives at an age 
when life is usually just beginning. All that would be 
necessary would be to ?nake a few concessions to the stern 
laws of necessity , that is to say, to learn how to make their 
natures twofold, to have two different beings in their bodies : 
the poet, always dreaming of the lofty peaks whereon the 
chorus of inspired voices sings ; and the man, the artisan 
of his own life and able to knead his daily bread. But 
this dualism, which almost always exists in well-tempered 
natures, one of whose distinctive characteristics it is, is 
not found in most of the young men to whom we refer, 
who are made invulnerable to all the advice of good sense 
by pride, a false pride. And so they die young, sometimes 
leaving behind them a work which the world admires later, 
and which it would doubtless have applauded sooner, had 
it not been kept out of sight. 

It is almost the same in the struggles of art as in war : 
all the glory won surrounds the names of the leaders ; the 
army’s reward consists in a few lines in the orders of the 
day. As for the private soldiers who are killed i?i the bat- 
tle, they are buried where they fell, and a single epitaph 
suffices for twenty thousand dead. 

So also the multitude, which always has its eyes fixed 
upon anybody who is rising, never lowers them to the 
underground regions where the obscure toilers are strug- 
gling ; they live their lives unknown, and leave the world 
wrapped in a shroud of indifference, without even having 
had the consolation now and then of smiling upon a com- 
pleted work. 


XIV 


PREFACE 


There is another class of dwellers in unknown Bohemia ; 
it consists of young people who have been deceived or have 
deceived themselves. They mistake a whim for a serious 
vocation , and ’ impelled by a homicidal mania , they die , 
some the victims of a never-ending paroxysm of pride , 
others the idolatrous worshippers of a chimera. 

At this pomt we ask leave to make a short digression. 

The highways of art, crowded and dangerous as they 
are , are becoming every day more crowded , notwithstand- 
ing the crowd and the dangers , so that Bohemia was never 
more thickly populated. 

If we should look closely among all the different reasons 
that may have caused this increase , we might perhaps find 
this one. 

Many young people have taken seriously , the loud talk 
071 the subject of unfortunate artists and poets. The 
names of Gilbert \ Malfilatre, Chatterton and Moreau have 
been bandied about too much , too recklessly , and ’ above all ’ 
too uselessly. The graves of those luckless creatures have 
bee7i taken as pulpits frotn which to preach the martyrdoni 
of art and poetry. 

O all too-barren earth, farewell, 

And human plagues, and frozen sun ! 

I, like lone phantom doomed to dwell. 

Shall pass away, observed by none. 

Those despairing lines of Victor Escousse, suffocated by 
the pride which a factitious triumph had inspired in him , 
became for a considerable time the Marseillaise of the vol- 
unteers of art, who were destined to inscribe their names 
on the martyrology of mediocrity. 

For, as all such depressing apotheoses, such laudatory 


PREFACE 


xv 


Requiems, have all the attraction of the abyss for weak 
minds and for the vain and ambitious , many , feeling the 
influence of that attraction, have thought that fatality was 
half of genius ; many have dreamed of the hospital bed on 
which Gilbert died \ hoping that they might become poets , 
as he did half an hour before his death , and believing that 
that was a necessary halting-place on the road to glory. 

It would be impossible to reprobate too severely these 
shameful falsehoods , these deadly paradoxes , which turn 
aside from a career , in which they might have succeeded 
so many men who come to a miserable end in a career 
where they are simply in the way of those to whom a gen- 
uine calling gives the right to enter upon it. 

This dangerous preaching , this useless posthumous lau- 
dation are what have created the absurd race of the mis- 
understood ' the tear-stained poets whose muse always has 
red eyes and dishevelled hair , and all the mediocrities of 
impotence , who , confined behind the bars of non-publica- 
tion , call the muse a cruel step-mother , and art a hangman. 

All minds of real power have their word to say and say 
it sooner or later. Genius and talent are not accide7it$ 
unprovided for in the ordering of the human race ; they 
have a reason for being , and on that very account could 
not remain always in obscurity ; for , if the multitude does 
not go out to meet them , they know enough to go to meet 
the multitude. Genius is the sun : the whole world sees 
it. Talent is the diamond which may remain for a long 
while out of sight in the darkness , but which is always 
discovered by someone. It is wrong therefore to be moved 
to pity by the lamentations and worn out methods of that 
class of worthless intruders who have forced their way 
into art \ in spite of art itself \ and who form a section of 


XVI 


PREFACE 


Bohemia in which indolence, debauchery and sycophancy 
make up the foundation of manners . 

Axiom 

“ Unknown Bohemia is not a highway, it is a cul-de-sac .’ 7 

In very truth that sort of life is something that leads to 
nothing . It is brutish destitution , amid which the intel- 
lect goes out like a lamp in a vacuum ; in which the heart 
turns to stone in savage misanthropy , and in which the 
best natures become the worst. If one has the misfortune 
to remain there too long and to penetrate too far into that 
blind-alley he either cannot find his way out or else 
he escapes through a dangerous breach in the wall ' only 
to fall into an adjacent Bohemia , whose manners belong 
to another sphere than that of literary physiology. 

We will mention one other singular variety of Bohemi- 
ans, who may be called amateurs. They are not the least 
interesting. They find life in Bohemia an existence full 
of charm : not to dine every day , to sleep in the open air 
under the tears of rainy, nights , and to dress in nankeen 
in the month of December seem to them the paradise of 
earthly felicity , and to enter therein they abandon , one 
the family hearth , another the studies that lead to a cer- 
tain result. They turn their backs abruptly on an honor- 
able future in order to run the risks of a hand-to-mouth 
existence. But as the more robust do not take kindly to 
a diet that would ?riake Hercules consumptive , they soon 
abandon the game, ride back at full speed to the paternal 
roast beef, to marry their second cousins and set up as 
notaries in a town of twenty or thirty thousand souls ; 
and in the evening, sitting in the chimney corner, they have 


PREFACE 


XVII 


the satisfaction of describing their poverty when they 
were artists, with all the gusto of a fraveller describing a 
tiger hunt . Others persist and consider their self-esteem 
at stake ; but when they have once exhausted the credit 
that young men of family always command they are more 
wretched than the genuine Bohemians , who , although they 
never have had any other resources, have at least those 
which intelligence affords. We once knew one of these 
amateur Bohemians , who , after he had remained three 
years in Bohemia and had fallen out wjth his family , 
died one fine morning , and was taken to the common grave 
in the pauper’s cart ; he had ten thousand francs a year / 

It is needless to say that Bohemians of that stripe have 
nothing in common with art, and that they are the most 
obscure among the least known denizens of unknown 
Bohemia. 

We come now to the true Bohemia ; to that which is 
in part the subject of this book. They who compose it are 
in very truth the called of art and have an opportunity 
to be also its chosen. This Bohemia, like the others, 
bristles with dangers ; on each side is a deep abyss : on 
one side want, on the other doubt. But between the two 
there is at all events a road leading to a goal which the 
Bohemians can touch with their glance, pending the time 
when they can touch it with their hands. 

This is official Bohemia ; so-called because they who 
belong there have publicly declared their existence, because 
they have given evidence of their presence in life otherwise 
than by the entry of their names on the civic roll ; and 
lastly because , to use an expression of their own, their 
names are on the poster, because they are known on the 
literary and artistic market-place, because their produc- 
2 


XV111 


PREFACE 


tions, which bear their signatures , find a sale there , 
although at ?noderate prices . 

To reach their goal, which is perfectly well-defined, all 
roads are good, and the Bohemians know how to make 
the most of the slightest incidents of the journey. Rain or 
dust, sunshine or shadow, nothing stays these bold ad- 
venturers, whose vices ate lined with a virtue . Their 
minds are kept always on the alert by their ambition, 
which sounds the charge in front of them and urges them 
on to the assault ; they are constantly at odds with neces- 
sity, and their invention, which always marches with 
matches lighted, removes the obstacle almost before it im- 
pedes them. Their existence from day to day is a work 
of genius, a daily problem which they always succeed in 
solving with the aid of some daring mathematics. Such 
fellows would induce Harpagon to lend them money and 
would find truffles on Medusa's raft. At need they ca?i 
practise abstinence with all the firmness of an anchorite ; 
but, let a little ?noney fall into their hands and you see 
theyn plunge at once into the most ruinous courses, making 
love to the fairest and youngest, drinking the best and the 
oldest, and never finding enough windows to throw their 
money through. And then, when their last crown is dead 
and buried, they begin again to dine at the table d y hote of 
chance where covers are always laid for them, and, pre- 
ceded by a whole pack of stratagems, poaching in all the 
lines of industry which have any connection with art, they 
hunt from morning to night that ferocious beast called a 
five-franc piece. 

The Bohemians know everything and go everywhere, 
according as their boots are polished or down at the heel. 
You meet them one day with their elbows on the mantel - 


PREFACE 


xix 


piece of a fashionable salon , and the next day sitting at 
table under the arbor of a low dance hall. They could 
not take ten steps on the boulevard without meeting a 
friend ’, or thirty steps anywhere without meeting a creditor. 

Bohemia speaks a language of its own , borrowed from 
the familiar conversation of the studio , the jargon of the 
wings and the discussions in editorial opfices. All the 
eclecticisms of style meet by appointment in that extraor- 
dinary idiom , where incomprehensible bombast rubs elbows 
with idle nonsense , where the homeliness of popular slang 
is conjoined with stilted periods from the same mould in 
which Cyrano cast the tirades put into the mouths of the 
Matamoras ; where paradox , that spoiled child of modern 
literature , treats common sense as Cassandra is treated 
in the pantomimes ; where irony has all the violence of the 
most powerful acids and the skill of those marksmen who 
hit a fly with their eyes bandaged ; slang which has a 
meaning , although it is unintelligible to all those who have 
not the key to it, and whose audacity surpasses that of the 
most unbridled tongues. The vocabulary of Bohemia is 
the hell of rhetoric and the paradise of neologism. 

Such , briejly summarized is the life in Bohemia , little 
known to the Puritans of society, decried by the Puritans 
of art, abused by all the whining and envious mediocrities 
who have not enough lies and calumnies and clamor at 
their command to stifle the voices and the names of those 
ivho attain renown by this road, harnessing audacity to 
their talent. 

A life of patience and courage, in which one can not 
support the combat unless he be clad in a cuirass of in- 
difference strong enough to resist the assaults of fools and 
envious detractors ; in which one cannot for a single mo- 


XX 


PREFACE 


merit, unless he wishes to stumble by the way , lay aside 
the self-pride which serves as a staff to lean upon ; a 
fascinating, yet terrible life, which has its victors and its 
martyrs, and upon which no one should enter unless he 
has first resigned himself to submit to the pitiless law of 
vae victis. 


H. M. 






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BOHEMIAN LIFE 






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Chapter X1TC 


A week after that festival , Marcel learned in what 
gallery his picture had taken its place. As he was 
Passing through Faubourg Saint-Honor he stopped in 
the centre of a group of people who seemed to be watching 
with interest the operation of placing a sign over a shop. 
That sign was ?iothing else than MarceV s picture , which 
Medicis had sold to a dealer in food products. 












BOHEMIAN LIFE 


i 

HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 

This is the way in which Chance, which sceptics call 
the good Lord’s man of business, brought together one 
day the individuals whose paternal association was later 
to become the club made up from that portion of 
Bohemia with which the author of this book has tried to 
make the public acquainted. 

One morning — it was the 8th of April — Alexandre 
Schaunard, who cultivated the two liberal arts of painting 
and music, was awakened abruptly by the ditty warbled 
by a rooster in the neighborhood, which acted as his clock. 

“ Sacrebleu !” cried Schaunard, “my feathered time- 
piece is too fast, it isn’t possible that it’s to-day already.” 

As he spoke he jumped quickly out of a piece of fur- 
niture of his own untiring invention, which, after playing 

3 


4 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


the part of a bed during the night — it does not follow 
that it did not play it very badly — filled, during the day, 
the rdle of all the other pieces of furniture, which were 
absent as a result of the very severe cold weather for 
which the preceding winter had been remarkable : a sort 
of Jack-at-albtrades piece of furniture, as you see. 

To protect himself from the biting blast of the morning 
north wind, Schaunard hastily donned a pink satin skirt 
with gold spangles, which did duty as a dressing-gown. 
That relic had been accidentally left behind in the artist’s 
apartment on the night of a bal masque by a Folly , who 
had committed the folly of allowing herself to be taken 
in by the deceitful promises of Schaunard, who, disguised 
as the Marquis de Mondor, seductively jingled in his 
pockets a dozen crowns, fictitious coins, cut with a punch 
from a metal plate and borrowed from the properties of 
a theatre. 

When he was arrayed in his fireside costume, the 
artist went to open his window and its shutter. A sun- 
beam at once burst into the room, like an arrow of light, 
and made him blink, his eyes being still veiled by the 
haze of sleep ; at the same moment a clock in the vicin- 
ity struck five. 

“It is Aurora herself,” muttered Schaunard; “it is 
surprising. But,” he added, consulting a calendar that 
hung on the wall, “ there’s a mistake none the less. The 
calculations of science declare that at this time of the 
year the sun should not rise until half-past five : it is only 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 5 

five and there he is on his legs already. Reprehensible 
zeal ! the orb is a transgressor and I propose to enter a 
complaint at the Bureau of Longitude. However,” he 
continued, “ I must begin to look about me a bit ; this 
is certainly the day after yesterday, and, as yesterday was 
the 7 th, this must be the 8th of April, unless Saturn is 
moving backward, and, if I am to believe what this paper 
has to say,” said Schaunard, reading for the second time 
a notice to quit affixed to the wall, “ to-day, at noon 
precisely, I am to have vacated these premises and to 
have counted into the hands of Monsieur Bernard, my 
landlord, the sum of seventy-five francs for three quarters’ 
rent, which sum he demands in very bad handwriting. 
I had hoped, as always, that Chance would assume the 
burden of adjusting this matter, but it would seem that 
it has not had time. However, I still have six hours 
before me, and by making a good use of them, perhaps — 
Come, come, let’s be off,” added Schaunard. 

He was preparing to put on a frock coat, the material 
of which, originally endowed with a long nap, had be- 
come quite bald, when suddenly, as if he had been bitten 
by a tarantula, he began to execute a choregraphic 
measure of his own composition, which had often won 
for him the honor of attention from the police at public 
balls. 

“ Well ! well ! ” he cried, “ it’s a strange thing how the 
morning air puts ideas into your head ; it seems to me 
that I am on the scent of the air I want. Let’s see — ” 


6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


And Schaunard, half naked, took his seat at the piano, 
and, having aroused the sleeping instrument by a tem- 
pestuous medley of chords, he began, soliloquizing the 
while, to pursue on the keyboard the melodic phrase 
he had been seeking so long. 

“Do, sol \ mi, do, la, si, do, re, bourn, bourn. Fa, re, 
mi, re. Ah ! that re is as false as Judas,” he exclaimed, 
pounding violently on the note of doubtful tone. “ Let’s 
try the minor. It must adroitly express the grief of a young 
woman pulling the leaves off a marguerite on the shores 
of a blue lake. The idea’s not particularly novel. How- 
ever, as it’s the fashion, and as you couldn’t find a 
publisher who would dare publish a song in which there 
was no blue lake, one must conform to it. Do, sol, mi, 
do, la, si, do, re; I don’t think that’s bad at all, it con- 
veys the idea of a daisy clearly enough, especially to 
those who are strong in botany. La, si, do, re, — you 
villain of a re / Now, to convey the idea of the blue 
lake, we must have something moist, sky-blue, with a 
touch of moonlight — for the moon comes in too ; good ! 
we’re coming on — but we mustn’t forget the swan. Fa, 
mi, la, sol, “he continued, running his fingers over the 
clear notes of the upper octave. “Now there’s the 
young girl’s farewell, when she makes up her mind to 
throw herself into the blue lake, to join her lover who is 
buried under the snow. The denouement is not very 
clear, but it is interesting. We must have something 
tender and melancholy; it’s coming, it’s coming, there 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 7 

are a dozen measures that weep like Madeleines ; it’s 
enough to break your heart ! — Brr ! brr ! ” exclaimed 
Schaunard, shivering in his star-spangled skirt, “ if it 
would only break up some wood ! There’s a beam in 
my alcove that annoys me exceedingly when I have com- 
pany — to dinner ; I might make a little- fire with la , la, 
re, mi, — for I feel that my inspiration is impeded by a 
cold in the head. Bah ! so much the worse ! let’s go on 
drowning my young woman.” 

And while his fingers ran up and down the throbbing 
keyboard, Schaunard, with flashing eyes and ear stretched, 
pursued his melody, which, like an intangible sylph, 
fluttered about amid the resonant haze with which the 
vibrations of the instrument seemed to fill the room. 

“Now,” said Schaunard, “let us see how my music fits 
my poet’s words.” 

And he hummed in an unpleasant voice this fragment 
of verse, employed especially in opera comique and pop- 
ular ditties : 

Toward the star-strewn sky, 

Glanced the maiden fair 
As she threw her mantle by, 

Glanced with sombre air, 

And in the azure flood 

Of the silver-biWowed lake 

***** 

“ What ! what ! ” exclaimed Schaunard in an outburst 
of righteous indignation, “ ‘ the azure flood of the silver- 
billowed lake ! ’ — I hadn’t noticed that — it’s too romantic 


8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


altogether, the poet’s an idiot, he never saw silver or a 
lake either. His ballad is stupid, too ; the metre both- 
ered me in writing the music; hereafter I’ll compose 
my own poems, and not later than this very minute ; as I 
feel in the mood, I’ll just make a rough draft of some 
lines to fit my tune.” 

Schaunard took his head in his hands and assumed the 
solemn attitude of a mortal who corresponds with the 
Muses. 

After a few moments of that sanctified concubinage, he 
brought into the world one of those misshapen creations 
which the writers of libretti rightly call monsters, and 
which they improvise on the spur of the moment to 
serve as a temporary canvas for the inspiration of the 
composer to work upon. 

But Schaunard’s monster had commonsense; it ex- 
pressed clearly the disquietude aroused in his mind by 
the heartless arrival of that date — the 8th of April ! 

Here are his verses : 

Eight and eight make sixteen, so 
Jot down six and carry one. 

Oh ! what comfort I should know 
Could I only find some one 
Poor and honest, heart full large, 

Who would francs eight hundred lend, 

That I might my debts discharge 
When I find the time to spend. 

Refrain. 

Then when from highest dial sounds 
A quarter of mid-day, 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 9 

My rent, like honest man and proud. 

My rent, like honest man and proud , 

My rent, like honest man and proud. 

To old Bernard I’ll pay. 

“The devil,” said Schaunard, reading over his com- 
position, “ sounds and proud ' — there’s a rhyme that’s 
no millionaire, but I haven’t time to enrich it. Now let’s 
see how the notes mate with the syllables.” 

In the horrible, nasal voice that was peculiar to him, 
he began anew to execute his ballad. Content, doubtless, 
with the result attained, Schaunard congratulated him- 
self with an exultant grimace which bestrode his nose 
like a circumflex accent whenever he was satisfied with 
himself. But his proud felicity was not of long duration. 

The clock in the neighborhood struck eleven; each 
stroke of the hammer entered the room and died away 
in mocking tones that seemed to say to the unhappy 
Schaunard : “ Are you ready? ” 

The artist leaped from his chair. 

“ Time runs like a stag,” he said, “ I have only three- 
quarters of an hour left to find my seventy-five francs 
and my new lodging. I shall never succeed in doing it, 
it comes too near the domain of magic. Well, I give 
myself five minutes to think up something ; ” and, bury- 
ing his head between his knees, he descended into the 
abyss of reflection. 

The five minutes passed and Schaunard raised his 
head without having found anything that resembled 
seventy-five francs. 


10 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Decidedly there’s only one way for me to get out of 
here, and that is to go away naturally ; it’s a fine day, 
my friend Chance may be taking a walk in the sun. He 
must take me in until I have found a way to settle with 
Monsieur Bernard.” 

Schaunard, having stuffed the cavernous pockets of his 
frock coat with all the objects they would hold, tied up 
a few linen effects in a silk handkerchief, and left the 
room, not without saying a few farewell words to his 
domicile. 

As he was crossing the courtyard, the concierge, who 
seemed to be on the watch for him, suddenly stopped 
him. 

“ Ho ! Monsieur Schaunard,” he cried, blocking the 
artist’s path, “ don’t you remember? to-day’s the 8th.” 

“ Eight and eight make sixteen, so 
Jot down six and carry one,” 

hummed Schaunard ; “ I can’t think of anything but 
that.” 

“ You’re a little late about moving,” said the con- 
cierge ; “ it’s half-past eleven, and the new tenant who’s 
hired your room may arrive any minute. You must 
hurry ! ” 

“ Let me pass then,” replied Schaunard, “ I am going 
to look for a furniture wagon.” 

“No doubt, but there is a little formality to be at- 
tended to before you move. I have orders not to let you 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED n 

take away a hair until you’ve paid the rent for the last 
three quarters. You’re ready, I suppose?” 

“ Parbleu ! yes,” said Schaunard, stepping forward. 

“ Then if you’ll just come into my lodge, I’ll give you 
a receipt.” 

“ I’ll get it when I come back.” 

“ But why not now? ” persisted the concierge. 

“ I am going to the bank. I have no change.” 

“Oho ! ” rejoined the other uneasily, “ you are going 
to get the change, are you ? Then, just to oblige you, 
I’ll take care of that little bundle you have under your 
arm ; it may be in your way.” 

“Monsieur le concierge,” said Schaunard with great 
dignity, “ can it be that you do not trust me ? Do you 
think I am carrying my furniture in a pocket-handker- 
chief? ” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” replied the concierge, lower- 
ing his tone a little, “ but those are my orders. Mon- 
sieur Bernard told me expressly not to let you take away 
a hair until you had paid.” 

“Well, look here,” said Schaunard, opening his bun- 
dle, “these aren’t hairs, but shirts which I am taking to 
the laundress who lives by the bank, not twenty steps 
from here.” 

“That’s a different matter,” said the concierge, after 
examining the contents of the bundle. “ Without im- 
pertinence, Monsieur Schaunard, might I ask you for 
your new address? ” 


12 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“I live on Rue de Rivoli,” replied the artist coldly; 
and, having once put his foot in the street, he gained an 
offing as quickly as possible. 

“Rue de Rivoli,” muttered the concierge, rubbing 
his nose, “ it’s very strange that anyone would let him 
rooms on Rue de Rivoli and not even come here to ask 
about him, — that’s very strange. However, he won’t 
carry his furniture away without paying. If only the 
other tenant won’t move in just as Monsieur Schaunard 
moves out ! That would make a fine mess on my stair- 
way. Well, upon my word,” he exclaimed, putting his 
head out of the window, “ here’s my new tenant 
now.” 

Followed by a porter, who did not seem overburdened 
by his load, a young man in a Louis XIII. hat was just 
passing through the vestibule. 

“ Monsieur,” he said to the concierge, who had gone 
to meet him, “ is my room empty? ” 

“ Not yet, monsieur, but it soon will be. The gentle- 
man who occupies it has gone to get a wagon to move 
his goods. Meanwhile, monsieur might have his furni- 
ture left in the courtyard.” 

“I am afraid it will rain,” replied the young man, 
calmly chewing a bunch of violets which he held between 
his teeth; “my furniture might be ruined. Porter,” he 
added, addressing the man who remained behind him, 
carrying a sack laden with articles whose nature the con- 
cierge was unable to make out, “ put that under the ves- 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 13 

tibule and return to my former lodging to get what val- 
uable pieces of furniture and objects of art are left 
there.” 

The porter stood up against the wall several frames 
six or seven feet high, whose leaves, which were folded 
together, seemed capable of being unfolded to a great 
length. 

“ See ! ” said the young man, partly opening one of 
the leaves and pointing to a rent in the canvas, “ here’s 
a misfortune, you have scarred my Venetian mirror; try 
to be more careful on your second trip and take special 
care of my library.” 

“What does he mean by his Venetian mirror? ” mum- 
bled the concierge, walking uneasily about the frames 
leaning against the wall, “ I don’t see any mirror; it’s a 
joke, I suppose, for I can’t see anything but a screen ; 
however, we’ll see what he brings on the second trip.” 

“ Isn’t your tenant going to let me have the room 
soon? It’s half-past twelve and I would like to move 
in,” said the young man. 

“ I don’t think he’ll be long now,” replied the con- 
cierge; “at all events, there’s no harm done yet, as 
your furniture hasn’t arrived,” he added, dwelling on 
the last words. 

The young man was about to reply when a dragoon 
on orderly duty entered the courtyard. 

“ Monsieur Bernard? ” he asked, taking a letter from 
a great leathern portfolio that was strapped to his side. 


*4 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ He is here,” the concierge replied. 

“ Here’s a letter for him,” said the dragoon, handing 
the concierge a list of despatches, which he took into 
his lodge to sign. 

“ Excuse me for leaving you alone,” he said to the 
young man, who was walking impatiently up and down 
the courtyard ; “ but this is a letter from the ministry 
for Monsieur Bernard, my landlord, and I must go and 
give it to him.” 

When the concierge entered his room, Monsieur Ber- 
nard was in the act of shaving. 

“ What do you want, Durand? ” 

“ Monsieur,” replied the concierge, removing his cap, 
“an orderly just brought this for you ; it’s from the 
ministry.” 

And he handed Monsieur Bernard the letter, whose 
envelope bore the seal of the department of war. 

“O Mon Dieitl” exclaimed Monsieur Bernard, so 
excited that he nearly made a gash with his razor, 
“ from the Ministry of War ! I am sure that it’s my ap- 
pointment to the rank of chevalier in the Legion of 
Honor, which I have solicited so 'long ; at last justice is 
done me for my firm attitude. Here, Durand,” he 
added, feeling in his waistcoat pocket, “ here’s a hun- 
dred sous to drink my health. No, I haven’t my purse 
with me, but I’ll give you the money in a moment ; 
wait.” 

The concierge was so moved by this overwhelming 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 15 


paroxysm of generosity to which his employer had not 
accustomed him, that he replaced his cap on his head. 

But Monsieur Bernard, who at any other time would 
have sternly rebuked that infraction of the laws of the 
social hierarchy, did not seem to notice it. He put on 
his spectacles, broke the seal with the respectful emo- 
tion of a vizier who receives a firman from the Sultan, 
and began to read the enclosure. At the first line, a 
horrible grimace furrowed crimson folds in the fat of 
his monkish cheeks, and his little eyes emitted sparks 
which almost set fire to the hair of his bushy wig. 

Finally all his features were so transformed that you 
would have said that his face had felt the shock of an 
earthquake. 

The contents of the missive which was written upon 
paper with the heading of the Ministry of War and 
brought by a dragoon at full speed, and for which Mon- 
sieur Durand had given the government a receipt, were 
as follows : 

“ Monsieur and Landlord, 

“ Policy, which, if mythology is to be believed, is the 
great grandmother of good manners, compels me to 
inform you that I find myself in the cruel position of 
being unable to conform to the custom people have of 
paying their rent, especially when they owe it. Until 
this morning I had cherished the fond hope that I 
should be able to celebrate this lovely day by liquidating 


i6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


the three quarters’ rent due. Chimera, delusion, vain 
hope ! While I lay sleeping upon the pillow of security, 
bad luck — in Greek avayxrj — scattered my hopes. The 
receipts upon which I relied — Great God ! how bad 
business is ! — did not materialize, and out of the consid- 
erable sums I expected to receive, I have as yet received 
only three francs, which were lent to me, and those I do 
not offer you. Better days will dawn for our dear 
France and for me, doubt it not, monsieur. As soon as 
they have arrived, I will take wings to fly and inform 
you of the fact, and to remove from your house the val- 
uable articles which I have left there and which I place 
under your protection and that of the law, which forbids 
your disposing of them within a year, in case you should 
be tempted to do so in order to recover the sums with 
which you are credited on the ledger of my honor. I 
commend my piano to your special care, and the large 
frame in which are sixty locks of hair whose different 
colors cover the whole gamut of capillary shades, and 
which have been cut from the brow of the Graces by 
the scalpel of Love. 

“ You may therefore, monsieur and landlord, dispose 
of the roof beneath which I have dwelt. I hereby grant 
you my permission to do so, sealed with my seal. 

“ Alexandre Schaunard.” 

When he had finished this epistle, which the artist 
had written on the desk of one of his friends employed 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 17 

at the Ministry of War, Monsieur Bernard indignantly 
crumpled it in his hands ; and, as his eyes fell upon 
Pere Durand, who was awaiting the promised gratuity, 
he asked him brutally what he was doing there. 

“ I am waiting, monsieur.” 

“Waiting for what? ” 

“Why, for the money monsieur generously — on ac- 
count of the good news ! ” stammered the concierge. 

“ Leave the room ! What, knave ! you remain in my 
presence with your hat on ! ” 

“ But monsieur — ” 

“ Off with you, no answer — or rather, wait for me. 
We’ll go up to that scoundrelly artist’s room, he has 
left without paying me.” 

“What,” said the concierge, “ Monsieur Schaunard ? ” 

“ Yes,” continued the landlord, whose rage increased 
like Nicollet’s. “And if he’s taken away the smallest 
thing, I discharge you, do you hear? I discha-a-a-arge 
you.” 

“Why, it’s impossible,” murmured the poor concierge. 
« Monsieur Schaunard hasn’t moved ; he went out to get 
the money to pay monsieur and to order a wagon to 
move his furniture.” 

“ Move his furniture ! ” exclaimed Monsieur Ber- 
nard ; “ let’s hurry, I am sure he’s moving it now ; he 
spread a trap for you to get you away from your lodge 
and play his trick, idiot that you are.” 

“ Ah ! Mon Dieu / idiot that I am, indeed,” cried 


2 


i8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


P£re Durand, trembling from head to foot before the 
Olympian wrath of his superior, who was dragging him 
to the stairway. 

As they reached the courtyard, the concierge was 
apostrophized by the young man in the white hat. 

“Look you, concierge,” he cried, “am I not to be 
put in possession of my domicile soon? is this the 8th 
of April? isn’t this the house in which I hired a room, 
and did I not pay you earnest money, yes or no?” 

“Your pardon, monsieur, your pardon,” said the land- 
lord. “ I am at your service. Durand,” he added, 
turning to the concierge, “ I will answer monsieur’s ques- 
tions myself. Go upstairs; that villain Schaunard has 
come back to pack up his goods, I haven’t a doubt ; 
if you catch him there, lock him in and come down to 
fetch the police.” 

Pere Durand disappeared in the hall. 

“ Your pardon, monsieur,” said the landlord, bowing 
to the young man, with whom he was now left alone, 
“ to whom have I the honor of speaking? ” 

“ I am your new tenant, monsieur ; I hired a room on 
the sixth floor in this house, and I am beginning to lose 
my patience because the room is not vacant yet.” 

“ I am in despair, monsieur,” said Monsieur Bernard ; 
“ a difficulty has arisen between myself and one of my 
tenants, the one whose room you are to take.” 

“ Monsieur, monsieur ! ” cried Pere Durand from a 
window on the top floor, “ Monsieur Schaunard is not 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 19 

here — but his room is — what a fool I am ! I mean that 
he hasn’t taken anything, not a hair, monsieur.” 

“Very good, come down,” Monsieur Bernard replied. 

“Mon Dieu!” he continued, addressing the young 
man, “have a little patience, I beg. My concierge 
will remove to the cellar the articles with which my 
insolvent tenant’s room is furnished, and you can take 
possession in half an hour ; besides, your furniture hasn’t 
arrived yet.” 

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” the young man 
calmly replied. 

Monsieur Bernard looked about and saw naught but 
the great screens which had already disturbed his con- 
cierge. 

“Why ! excuse me,” he murmured, “but I see noth- 
ing.” 

“ Look,” replied the young man, unfolding the leaves 
and presenting to the gaze of the bewildered landlord a 
magnificent palace interior with pillars of jasper, bas- 
reliefs and pictures by the great masters. 

“ But your furniture ? ” queried Monsieur Bernard. 

“ Here it is,” replied the young man, pointing to the 
sumptuous furniture painted on the canvas palace , which 
he had purchased at the Hotel Bullion, where it was of- 
fered for sale as part of the scenery of a society theatre. 

“ Monsieur,” rejoined the landlord, “ I prefer to be- 
lieve that you have some more serious furniture than that.” 

“ What, pure Boule ! ” 


20 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“You understand that I must have security for my 
rent.” 

“ The devil ! isn’t a palace sufficient security for the 
rent of an attic? ” 

“No, monsieur, I want furniture, real mahogany 
furniture ! ” 

“ Alas ! neither gold nor mahogany can make us 
happy, some ancient writer has said, monsieur. And 
then, I can’t endure mahogany, it’s too common, every- 
body has it.” 

“ But of course, monsieur, you have some furniture of 
some sort? ” 

“ No, it takes up too much room in one’s apartments, 
as soon as you have chairs, you don’t know where to sit 
down.” 

“But you certainly have a bed ? On what do you 
take your repose? ” 

“ I repose on Providence, monsieur ! ” 

“ One more question,” said Monsieur Bernard, “ your 
profession, if you please? ” 

At that very moment the young man’s porter returned 
from his second trip and entered the courtyard. Among 
the objects that he carried in his straps was an easel. 

“ Ah ! monsieur,” cried Pere Durand in dismay, call- 
ing the landlord’s attention to the easel. “ He’s a 
painter ! ” 

“ An artist, I was sure of it ! ” exclaimed Monsieur 
Bernard, and the hair of his wig stood on end with 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 21 

terror ; “ a painter ! ! ! Why, didn’t you make any in- 
quiries about monsieur?” he continued, addressing the 
concierge, “ Didn’t you know what he did? ” 

“Bless me !” the poor man replied, “he gave me five 
francs in advance ; could I suspect — ” 

“ When will you have finished ? ” interposed the young 
man. 

“ Monsieur,” rejoined Monsieur Bernard, straighten- 
ing his spectacles on his nose, “ as you have no furniture, 
you cannot move in. The law authorizes the landlord to 
refuse a tenant who brings no security.” 

“And what about my word, pray?” said the artist 
with dignity. 

“That’s not worth as much as furniture — you can 
look for a lodging elsewhere. Durand will return what 
you have paid.” 

“ Hein ! ” exclaimed the wondering concierge ; “ I 
put it in the strong box.” 

“ But, monsieur,” said the young man, “ I can’t find 
another lodging on the minute. At least, give me hos- 
pitality for a day.” 

“Go and take a room at the hotel,” replied Monsieur 
Bernard. “ By the way,” he added hastily, as if upon 
sudden reflection, “ if you like, I will let you the room 
you were to occupy, furnished ; my insolvent tenant’s 
furniture is there. But you know that the rent is always 
paid in advance for that sort of tenancy.” 

“It would be well to know what you propose to ask 


22 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


for this kennel?” said the artist, forced to accept the 
suggestion. 

“ Why, it’s a very nice room ; the rent will be twenty- 
five francs a month under the circumstances. You must 
pay in advance.” 

“You have said that already; the phrase doesn’t de- 
serve the honor of an encore,” said the young man, fum- 
bling in his pockets. “ Have you change for five hun- 
dred francs? ” 

“What?” demanded the thunderstruck landlord, 
“you say? ” 

“ The half of a thousand, then ! Didn’t you ever see 
such a thing? ” added the artist, waving the note before 
the eyes of the landlord and the concierge, who seemed 
to lose their equilibrium at the sight. 

“I will go and get the change,” replied Monsieur 
Bernard respectfully, “ there will be only twenty francs 
to come out, as Durand will return the earnest money.” 

“I will let him keep it,” said the artist, “on condition 
that he comes every morning to tell me the day of the 
week and date of the month, the quarter of the moon, 
what kind of weather it is and the form of government 
we live under.” 

“ O monsieur ! ” cried Pere Durand, describing a curve 
of ninety degrees. 

“ It’s all right, my good man, you shall be my al- 
manac. Meanwhile, go and help my porter to move in 
my things.” 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 23 


“ Monsieur,” said the landlord, “ I will send you your 
receipt.” 

That same evening Monsieur Bernard’s new tenant, the 
painter Marcel, was installed in the late apartment of the 
fugitive Schaunard, now transformed into a palace. 

Meanwhile the said Schaunard was doing what is 
called in Paris sounding the recall for money. 

Schaunard had raised borrowing to the level of an 
art. Foreseeing an emergency in which he might have 
to oppress foreigners, he had learned how to borrow five 
francs in all the languages of the earth. He had made 
an exhaustive study of the repertory of stratagems which 
the precious metal employs to elude those who are in 
pursuit of it ; and he was more familiar than a pilot is 
with the hours of high and low tide, with the periods 
when the waters were low or high, that is to say, when 
his friends and acquaintances were in the habit of re- 
ceiving money. So there were houses where, when they 
saw him appear, they did not say : “ Here’s Monsieur 
Schaunard,” but : “This is the first of the month, or the 
fifteenth of the month.” To facilitate and, at the same 
time, equalize this species of tithe which he collected, 
when necessity forced him to do it, from those who had 
the means of paying it, Schaunard had drawn up an 
alphabetical list of all his friends and acquaintances, 
arranged by quarters and arrondissements. Opposite 
each name was entered the maximum sum he could 
borrow from that person, in view of the amount of his in- 


24 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


come, the times when he was in funds, his hours for 
meals and his usual bill of fare. In addition to that 
list, Schaunard also kept a little set of books, in perfect 
order, in which he kept an account of the sums lent 
to him, to the smallest fractions, for he did not intend to 
involve himself beyond a certain figure which was still at 
the end of the pen of a Norman uncle, whose heir he was. 
As soon as he owed twenty francs to one person, Schau- 
nard stopped borrowing from him and paid him to the 
last sou, although in order to do so, he had to borrow 
from others to whom he owed less. In that way he 
always had a certain amount of credit on the market, 
which he called his floating debt; and as everyone 
knew that he was in the habit of paying up as soon as 
his resources enabled him to do it, they willingly accom- 
modated him when they could. 

Now, since eleven o’clock in the morning, when he 
had started out to try to collect the seventy-five francs 
he needed, he had as yet collected only a small crown — 
three francs — due to the collaboration of the letters M. 
V. and R. on his famous list ; all the rest of the alphabet, 
having rent to pay like himself, dismissed his peti- 
tion. 

At six o’clock a ferocious appetite rang the dinner- 
bell in his stomach ; he was then at the Barriere du 
Maine, where the letter U. lived. Schaunard called upon 
the letter U., where a napkin was always at his service 
when there were napkins there. 


<2ti)aptec 5 


“But your furniture f ” queried Monsieur Bernard. 

“ Here it is," replied the young man , pointmg to the 
stimptuous furniture painted on the canvas palace, which 
he had purchased at the Hdtel Bullion, where it was 
offered for sale as part of the sceneiy of a society theatre. 


5 wtp<fl!> 


.Vrcss$m& 'sssVmsoVTi 'sssqv^\ss& > ‘ 

m\\ irArio^ .sssssss -^sssscy^ m ,w Vs s^W“ 

tais&vas ,90BlBq issvssssft m\\ sso ^Wsss<\ ^ssVssvsss\issqssVVsssssi 
isms Vs *ratas .ssqsWssSV \^&W \» Vftzssfcms<V V>sss\ ^ 

.vs\smM 'jVVhstt. Si v^ssm \o Vsss<V iss 's^V. 


















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HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 25 

“ Where are you going, monsieur ? ” asked the con- 
cierge, stopping him as he passed. 

“ To Monsieur U ’s,” the artist replied. 

“ He’s not in.” 

“ And Madame ? ” 

“She’s not in, either; they told me to tell one of 
their friends who was to call on them this evening, that 
they were dining out ; if you are the gentleman they 
expected, here’s the address they left for you,” and he 

handed Schaunard a bit of paper on which U had 

written : 

“We have gone to dine with Schaunard, number — 
Rue ; come and join us there.” 

“Very good,” said he, taking his leave, “when 
chance takes a hand, it plays some curious tricks.” 

Schaunard remembered just then that he was within 
a few steps of a little tavern where he had obtained 
a meal two or three times at a low figure, so he bent 
his steps toward the establishment in question, which 
is situated on Chauss£e du Maine, and is known in 
Lower Bohemia by the name of La Mere Cadet. It 
is an eating-house whose ordinary clientage consists of 
carriers on the Orleans road, songstresses from Mont- 
parnasse and jeunes premiers from Bobino. In the fine 
season the drudges from various studios near the Lux- 
embourg, unknown men of letters and scribblers for 
mysterious newspapers, come in chorus to dine at La 
Mere Cadet, which is famous for its rabbit stews, its 


26 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


genuine sauerkraut and a little white wine that smells of 
flint. 

Schaunard took a seat in one of the arbors ; that is 
the name given at La Mere Cadet to the sparse foliage 
of two or three stunted trees, whose sickly verdure 
forms the ceiling. 

“ Faith, never mind,” said Schaunard to himself, “I 
propose to have a good square meal and enjoy a secluded 
Balthasar’s feast.” 

And without more ado he ordered a soup, half a 
portion of sauerkraut and two half-portions of rabbit- 
stew. He had noticed that by dividing the portions 
you get at least a fourth more. 

That bountiful order attracted the attention of a 
young woman dressed in white, with orange blossoms in 
her hair and dancing shoes on her feet; a veil of 
sham imitation lace fell over her shoulders, which 
ought to have remained hidden. She was a singer from 
the Theatre Montparnasse, whose wings opened into the 
kitchen of La Mere Cadet \ so to speak. She had come 
to take a bite during an entr’acte of Lucia , and was at 
that moment finishing with a small cup of coffee, a din- 
ner consisting exclusively of an artichoke with oil and 
vinegar. 

“ Two stews ! the deuce ! ” she said in an undertone 
to the girl who acted as waiter ; “ there’s a young man 
who takes good care of himself. How much do I owe, 
Adele ? ” 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 27 

“Four for the artichoke, four for the coffee, and a 
sou’s worth of bread. That makes nine sous.” 

“ Here you are,” said the cantatrice, and she went 
out humming : 

“ This love that God gives me ! ” 

“ Hallo, she gives the la” observed a mysterious 
personage who was sitting at the same table with 
Schaunard, half-hidden behind a rampart of old books. 

“Gives it?” said Schaunard; “I should say that 
she keeps it, for my part. She doesn’t know what she’s 
doing,” he added, pointing to the plate from which 
Lucia de Lammermoor had consumed her artichoke, 
“ to pickle her upper register in vinegar ! ” 

“ It is a powerful acid, it is true,” rejoined the per- 
son who had already spoken. “The city of Orleans 
produces a vinegar which justly enjoys a great repu- 
tation.” 

Schaunard closely scrutinized the face of the indi- 
vidual who cast hooks thus into the conversation. The 
steadfast gaze of his great blue eyes, which seemed 
always to be looking for something, gave to his counte- 
nance the expression of beatific placidity which you ob- 
serve in seminarists. His face was of the tint of old 
ivory, except the cheeks, which were spread with a layer 
of the color of powdered brick. His mouth seemed to 
have been designed by a pupil of first principles , whose 
elbow somebody had jostled while he was at work. The 


28 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


lips, turned up a little at the corners as in the negro 
race, disclosed a set of hunting-dog’s teeth, and his chin 
rested its double folds on a white cravat, one of whose 
ends pointed threateningly to the stars, while the other 
seemed inclined to stick into the earth. From beneath 
a worn felt hat, with a prodigiously broad brim, his hair 
escaped in blond cascades. He was dressed in a nut- 
brown frock-coat with a broad collar, the material of 
which, being worn to the woof, was as rough as a nut- 
meg-grater. From the yawning pockets of his coat 
protruded bundles of papers and pamphlets. Paying no 
attention to the scrutiny of which he was the object, he 
ate with relish a sauerkraut, giving vent from time to 
time to loud expressions of satisfaction. As he ate, he 
was reading a book that lay open on the table in front 
of him, making annotations thereon occasionally with a 
pencil that he carried behind his ear. 

“Well, well!” cried Schaunard suddenly, striking 
his glass with his knife, ‘‘where’s my stew ? ” 

“There isn’t any more, monsieur,” replied the girl, 
coming up with a plate in her hand ; “ this is the last, 
and monsieur ordered it,” she added, depositing the 
plate in front of the man with the books. 

“ Sacrebleu ! ” cried Schaunard. 

There was such a world of melancholy disappoint- 
ment in that sacrebleu that the man with the books was 
touched to the heart. He put aside the barricade of 
books between himself and Schaunard, and said to him, 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 29 

bringing into play the softest chords of his voice as he 
placed the dish between them : 

“ Might I dare ask you, monsieur, to share this dish 
with me?” 

“ I do not wish to deprive you of it, monsieur,” was 
the reply. 

“ And so you will deprive me of the pleasure of oblig- 
ing you? ” 

“ If that is true, monsieur — ” And Schaunard passed 
his plate. 

“ Permit me not to offer you the head,” said the 
stranger. 

“ O monsieur, I can’t allow that,” cried Schaunard. 

But as he drew back his plate, he saw that the stranger 
had served him the portion that he said that he pro- 
posed to keep for himself. 

“Well, well! what did all his courtesy amount to ? ” 
grumbled Schaunard inwardly. 

“The head maybe the noblest part of man,” said 
the stranger, “ but it’s the most disagreeable part of the 
rabbit. Indeed we find many people who can’t endure 
it. But it’s different with me, I adore it.” 

“ In that case,” said Schaunard, “ I keenly regret that 
you have robbed yourself of it for me.” 

“What do you say? I beg your pardon,” said the 
man with the books, “ but I have kept the head. I even 
had the honor to call your attention to the fact 
that—” 


3 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Allow me,” said Schaunard, thrusting his plate under 
his companion’s nose. “What is that piece there?” 

“ Great heaven ! what do I see ? ye gods ! Another 
head ! It’s a bicephalous rabbit ! ” cried the stranger. 

“ Biceph — ” said Schaunard. 

“ — alous. The word comes from the Greek. Indeed 
Monsieur de Buffon, who wore ruffles, quotes examples 
of this peculiarity. Well, upon my word ! I am not 
sorry to have eaten the phenomenon.” 

Thanks to this incident, the conversation was fairly 
started. Schaunard, who did not choose to be left be- 
hind in the matter of courtesy, ordered an extra quart. 
The man with the books ordered another. Schaunard of- 
fered a salad. The man with the books offered dessert. At 
eight o’clock in the evening there were six empty bottles 
on the table. As they talked, the spirit of frankness 
watered by libations of the red wine, impelled them 
mutually to tell each other the stories of their lives, and they 
were as well acquainted already as if they had never been 
separated. The man with the books, after listening to 
Schaunard’ s confidences, informed him that his name 
was Gustave Colline ; he carried on the profession of a 
philosopher and lived by giving lessons in mathematics, 
scholastics and several other sciences in ics. 

The little money that he earned thus by playing the 
pedagogue, Colline spent in purchases of books. His 
nut-brown coat was known to all the keepers of book- 
stalls along the quay, from Pont de la Concorde to Pont 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 31 

Saint-Michel. What he did with all his books, which 
were so numerous that a man’s life would not have suf- 
ficed to read them, no one knew, and he knew least of 
all. But that fancy had taken on the proportions of a 
passion with him ; and when he returned home without 
a new book, he repeated for his own use the remark of 
Titus, and said : “ I have wasted my day.” His coaxing 
manners, his language, which presented a mosaic of all 
styles, and the ghastly puns with which he interlarded his 
conversation, had fascinated Schaunard, who asked Col- 
line’s permission on the spot to add his name to those 
which made up the famous list of which we have already 
spoken. 

They left La Mere Cadet at nine in the evening, both 
passably tipsy and with the gait of men who had been 
colloguing with bottles. 

Colline suggested coffee to Schaunard, who accepted 
on condition that he should supply the liquors. They 
entered a caf£ on Rue Saint-Germain-1’ Auxerrois, bearing 
the name of Momns , the god of Sport and Laughter. 1 

Just as they entered the establishment, a very earnest 
discussion had arisen between two of the habitues. One 
of them was a young man whose face was lost in the 
depths of an enormous thicket of multicolored beard. 
By way of antithesis to this abundance of hair on his 
face, premature baldness had laid bare his scalp, which 
resembled a knee, and whose nakedness a cluster of hair, 
so thin that its members could be counted, tried vainly 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


32 

to conceal. He was dressed in a black coat, threadbare at 
the elbows, which, when he raised his arms, revealed air- 
holes where the sleeves were attached. His trousers 
might once have been black, but his boots, which had 
never been new, looked as if they had already made the 
tour of the world several times on the feet of the Wander- 
ing Jew. 

Schaunard noticed that his friend Colline and the 
young man with the long beard bowed to each other. 

“Do you know that gentleman ? ” he asked the philos- 
opher. 

“Not exactly,” he replied; “but I meet him some- 
times at the Library. I believe he’s a man of letters.” 

“He has the coat of one at all events,” rejoined 
Schaunard. 

The person with whom the young man was engaged in 
discussion was a man of about forty, doomed to be struck by 
the lightning of apoplexy, as the great head placed di- 
rectly between the two shoulders, with no neck between, 
clearly indicated. Insanity was written in capital letters 
on his depressed forehead, covered with a small black 
cap. His name was Monsieur Mouton, and he was em- 
ployed to keep the record of deaths at the mayor’s 
office of the fourth arrondissement. 

“ Monsieur Rodolphe ! ” he cried in a voice like a 
eunuch’s, shaking the young man, whom he grasped by a 
button of his coat, “ do you want me to give you my 
opinion? Well, all the newspapers are good for nothing. 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 33 

Suppose a case ; I am the father of a family, am I not ? 
— good. I come to the caf£ to play a game of dominoes. 
Follow my argument closely.” 

“ Go on, go on,” said Rodolphe. 

“Well,” continued Pere Mouton, emphasizing every 
phrase with a blow of his fist that made the mugs and 
glasses on the table tremble. “Very good, I happen to 
get hold of the papers. What do I see? One says 
white, the other says black, and so they gabble senselessly. 
What good does that do me ? I am a good husband and 
father who comes here to play — ” 

“ His game of dominoes,” said Rodolphe. 

“ Every evening,” continued Monsieur Mouton. 

“Well, suppose a case ! You understand ” 

“Very well ! ” said Rodolphe. 

“ I read an article that I don’t agree with. That 
makes me angry and I fret, because you see, Monsieur 
Rodolphe, the newspapers are all lies. Yes, lies ! ” he 
yelled in his shrillest falsetto, “ and journalists are brig- 
ands, scribblers.” 

“ And yet, Monsieur Mouton ” 

“ Yes, brigands,” continued the civil servant. 
“They’re the cause of everybody’s misfortunes; they 
made the Revolution and the assignats ; witness Murat.” 
“Excuse me,” said Rodolphe, “you mean Marat.” 

“ No indeed, no indeed,” rejoined Monsieur Mouton ; 
“ Murat, for I saw his funeral when I was a child — ” 

“ I assure you ” 

3 


34 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ They even had a play about him at the Cirque . 
There ! ” 

“ Yes, exactly,” said Rodolphe ; “ that was Murat.” 

“Well, what have I been telling you for the last 
hour?” cried the obstinate Mouton. “Murat, who 
worked in a cellar, you know ! Well, suppose a case. 
Didn’t the Bourbons do right to guillotine him, as he 
was a traitor? ” 

“Who? guillotined! a traitor! what are you talk- 
ing about?” cried Rodolphe, seizing Monsieur Mouton 
by his coat button in his turn. 

“Why, Marat.” 

“ No, no, Monsieur Mouton, Murat. Sacrebleu / let us 
understand each other.” 

“ Certainly, Marat, a cur. He betrayed the Emperor 
in 1815. That’s why I say that all newspapers are 
alike,” continued Mouton, returning to his main theme 
from what he called an explanation. “Do you know 
what I would like, Monsieur Rodolphe? Well, suppose 
a case : I would like a good newspaper — Oh ! not great 
— good ! one which wouldn’t manufacture phrases. — 
There ! ” 

“You are exacting,” Rodolphe interposed. “A 
newspaper without phrases ! ” 

“Why, yes, follow my line of thought.” 

“ I am trying to.” 

“A newspaper which would simply tell about the 
king’s health and the price of produce. For, after all, 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 35 

what’s the use of all your newspapers, which nobody can 
understand ? Let us suppose a case : I am at the 
mayor’s office, am I not? I keep my records — well and 
good ! well it’s just as if some one should come to me 
and say : ‘ Monsieur Mouton, you record deaths ; well, 
do this and do that.’ Well, but what is this? what is 
that? It’s just the same with newspapers,” he con- 
cluded. 

“ Evidently,” said a neighbor, who had understood. 

And Monsieur Mouton, having received the congratu- 
lations of some of the habitues, who shared his opinion, 
resumed his game of dominoes. 

“ I put him down where he belongs,” he said, point- 
ing to Rodolphe, who had taken his seat at the same 
table at which Schaunard and Colline were sitting. 

“ What a blockhead,” he said to the two young men, 
indicating the clerk. 

“ He has a fine head with his eyelids like the hood 
of a cabriolet and goggle eyes in the bargain,” said 
Schaunard, producing a short pipe marvellously colored. 

“ Parbleu ! monsieur,” said Rodolphe, “you have a 
very pretty pipe there.” 

“Oh! I have a prettier one to take into society,” 
rejoined Schaunard carelessly. “ Pass me some tobacco, 
Colline.” 

“The deuce!” cried the philosopher; “I have no 
more.” 

“ Allow me to offer you some,” said Rodolphe, taking 


36 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

a package of tobacco from his pocket and laying it on 
the table. 

Colline felt called upon to respond to that courteous 
act by the offer of a glass of something. 

Rodolphe accepted. The conversation turned upon 
literature. Rodolphe, when questioned as to his pro- 
fession, which was clearly betrayed by his coat, con- 
fessed to his relations with the Muses and ordered a 
second round. As the waiter was about to take away the 
bottle, Schaunard begged him to forget it. He had 
heard the silvery chink of two five-franc pieces in one of 
Colline’s pockets. Rodolphe soon reached the level of 
expansiveness already attained by the two friends and in 
his turn confided in them. 

They would undoubtedly have passed the night at the 
cafe, had they not been requested to withdraw. They 
had not taken ten steps in the street and had spent 
quarter of an hour in taking them, when they were sur- 
prised by a heavy shower. Colline and Rodolphe lived 
at the two opposite extremities of Paris, one at Isle- 
Saint- Louis, the other at Montmartre. 

Schaunard, who had entirely forgotten that he was 
without domicile, offered them his hospitality. 

“ Come home with me,” he said, “ I have a room 
near by ; we will pass the night talking of literature and 
the fine arts.” 

“ You will play to us and Rodolphe will tell us of his 
poems,” said Colline. 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 37 

“ Faith, yes,” said Schaunard, “ we must enjoy our- 
selves, we have but one life.” 

Having reached his house, which he had some diffi- 
culty in recognizing, Schaunard sat down for a moment 
on a stone, waiting for Colline and Rodolphe who had 
gone to a wine-shop that was still open, to procure the 
first elements of a supper. When they had returned, 
Schaunard knocked several times at the door, for he re- 
membered vaguely that the concierge was in the habit of 
making him wait. The door opened at last, and Pere 
Durand, heavy with the delicious first sleep, and for- 
getting that Schaunard was no longer his tenant, was not 
at all disturbed when that worthy shouted his name 
through the window. 

When they had all three arrived at the top of the 
stairs, after an ascent that was no less long than diffi- 
cult, Schaunard, who was walking ahead, uttered an ex- 
clamation of amazement upon finding the key in the 
door of his room. 

“What’s the matter? ” queried Rodolphe. 

“I can’t make anything out of it,” he muttered; 
“ I find in my door the key that I carried away this 
morning. Ah ! we’ll see. I put it in my pocket, 
Parbleu / here it is still ! ” he cried, producing the 
key. 

“ It’s magic ! ” 

“ Hallucination,” said Colline. 

“Fancy,” added Rodolphe. 


38 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“But, listen — do you hear ?” said Schaunard, whose 
voice betrayed a beginning of terror. 

“ What ? ” 

“What?” 

“ My piano, playing all by itself—^, la mi re do , la 
si sol, re. That infernal re l it will always strike false.” 

“Why, it isn’t your room, of course,” said Rodolphe, 
adding in a whisper to Colline, upon whom he was 
leaning heavily, “he’s drunk.” 

“ I believe you. In the first place it isn’t a piano, 
it’s a flute.” 

“Why, you’re drunk too, my dear fellow,” the poet 
replied to the philosopher, who had seated himself on 
the floor : “ it’s a violin.” 

“A vio — Bah ! I say, Schaunard,” lisped Colline, 
pulling his friend by the leg, “ that’s pretty good, that 
is ! monsieur here insists that it’s a vio ” 

“ Sacrebleu / " cried Schaunard, beside himself with 
fright, “my piano keeps on playing! it’s witchcraft!” 

“ Halluci-ci-nation ! ” shouted Colline, dropping one 
of the bottles he held in his hand. 

“Fancy,” howled Rodolphe in his turn. 

Amid the hurly-burly, the chamber door opened 
suddenly, and an individual appeared on the thresh- 
old, holding in his hand a three-branched candle- 
stick, in which pink candles were burning. 

“What do you wish, messieurs ?” he asked, saluting 
the three friends courteously. 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 39 

“ Great heaven, what have I done ? I have made a 
mistake ; this isn’t my room,” said Schaunard. 

“ Monsieur,” added Colline and Rodolphe in unison, 
addressing the person who had opened the door, “ pray 
excuse our friend ; he is very drunk.” 

Suddenly a gleam of light flashed through Schaunard’s 
intoxication, as he read on his door this line written in 
chalk,: 

“ I have been three times to get my New Year’s present. 

“ Phemie.” 

“ Why yes, why yes, I am at home ! ” he cried ; 
“ there’s the visiting card Phemie left for me New 
Year’s Day ; this is my door and no mistake.” 

“Mon Dieu , monsieur,” said Rodolphe, “I am really 
bewildered.” 

“ Believe, monsieur,” added Colline, “ that I for my 
part am an earnest collaborator in my friend’s bewilder- 
ment.” 

The young man could not restrain a smile. 

“ If you will come in for a moment,” he answered, 
“ your friend will undoubtedly realize that he is mistaken 
as soon as he sees the room.” 

“ Willingly.” 

And the poet and the philosopher, each taking Schau- 
nard by one arm, led him into the chamber, we ought 
rather to say the palace, occupied by Marcel, whom 
our readers will doubtless have recognized. 


40 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Schaunard glanced vaguely around, muttering. 

“ It’s amazing how my room is improved.” 

“ Well, are you convinced now ? ” queried Colline. 

But Schaunard, having caught sight of the piano, had 
staggered to it and was playing scales. 

“ I say, you fellows, listen to that,” he said, striking 
a few resonant chords. “ It’s all right ! The beast 
has recognized his master : si la sol fa mi re ! Ah ! 
you rascal of a re / you’ll always be the same ! I said 
it was my piano.” 

“ He insists,” said Colline to Rodolphe. 

“ He insists,” Rodolphe repeated to Marcel. 

“And look at that,” added Schaunard, pointing to 
the star-spangled petticoat, which was thrown over a 
chair, “ perhaps that isn’t mine ! ah ! ” He looked 
Marcel squarely in the face. 

“And that,” he added, taking from the wall the 
notice to quit that we mentioned above.” 

And he began to read : 

“ ‘ Wherefore Monsieur Schaunard is ordered to va- 
cate the premises and restore them in good condition 
with all repairs chargeable to the tenant duly made, 
before twelve o’clock noon on April 8th : In witness 
whereof I have set my hand to this notice, the cost of 
which is five francs.’ Aha ! so I am not Monsieur 
Schaunard, who receives a notice to quit, with the 
honors of the stamp office, the cost of which is five 
francs ? And those too,” he added, recognizing his 




Chapter I 


Amid the hurly-burly , the chamber-door opened sud- 
denly , and an individual appeared on the threshold, hold- 
ing in his hand a three-branched candlestick , in which 
pink candles were burning. 





£ wtyBfS) 


^e^fo.'smW xw ta^al\4fcfSiWj $x» Wa 
fo’s&B m a mA «j ■%«’$ 

.^starai^ raus i^Yxxvsft 











































HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 41 

slippers on Marcel’s feet, “ I suppose those aren’t my 
Turkish slippers, a present from a dear hand ? It’s 
your turn now, monsieur,” he said to Marcel ; “ ex- 
plain your presence among my household gods.” 

“ Messieurs,” replied Marcel, addressing himself par- 
ticularly to Colline and Rodolphe, “ monsieur,” — and 
he pointed to Schaunard — “ is in his own room, I ad- 
mit.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed Schaunard, “that’s lucky for you.” 

“ But,” continued Marcel, “ I also am in my room.” 

“And yet, monsieur,” Rodolphe interrupted, “if our 
friend recognizes ” 

“Yes,” continued Colline, “if our friend ” 

“ And if you, on your part, admit that — added 
Rodolphe, “ how does it happen ” 

“Yes,” repeated Colline, the echo, “how does it 
happen ? ” 

“ Be good enough to be seated, gentlemen,” replied 
Marcel, “and I will explain the mystery.” 

“Suppose we should moisten the explanation?” 
suggested Colline. 

“ By breaking a crust together,” added Rodolphe. 

The four young men seated themselves at the table 
and began an assault on a piece of cold veal that the 
wine-shop keeper had thrown in with the wine. 

Marcel then proceeded to explain what had taken 
place that morning between him and the landlord, 
when he had come to move in. 


42 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ In that case,” said Rodolphe, “ monsieur is per- 
fectly right, and we are in his apartments.” 

“You are at home,” said Marcel politely. 

But an enormous amount of hard work was required 
to make Schaunard understand what had taken place. 
A comical incident added to the complication of the sit- 
uation. Schaunard, as he was looking for something in 
a buffet, discovered the change from the five-hundred- 
franc note with which Marcel had paid Monsieur Ber- 
nard in the morning. 

“Ah!” he cried, “I was sure that Chance wouldn’t 
desert me. I remember now — that I went out this 
morning to run after Chance. Of course, because it was 
quarter-day he came during my absence. We missed 
each other, that’s all. How shrewd it was of me to 
leave the key in the drawer ! ” 

“ Mild insanity ! ” murmured Rodolphe, as he watched 
Schaunard arranging the coins in piles of equal height. 

“A dream, a falsehood, such is life,” added the phil- 
osopher. 

Marcel laughed. 

An hour later they were all four asleep. 

The next day, at noon, they awoke and seemed vastly 
astonished to find themselves together. Schaunard, Col- 
line and Rodolphe seemed not to recognize one another 
and addressed one another as Monsieur. Marcel had to 
remind them that they had arrived together the night 
before. 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 43 

At that moment Pere Durand entered the room. 

“ Monsieur,” he said to Marcel, “this is the ninth of 
April, one thousand eight hundred and forty — the streets 
are muddy, and His Majesty Louis-Philippe is still King 
of France and Navarre. — Well, well? ” he exclaimed as 
he spied his former tenant ; “ Monsieur Schaunard ! 
How did you come here, then?” 

“By telegraph,” Schaunard replied. 

“I see,” rejoined the concierge. “You must still 
have your joke ! ” 

“ Durand,” said Marcel, “ I don’t care to have serv- 
ants take part in my conversation ; you will go to the 
nearest restaurant and order breakfast sent to this room, 
for four persons. Here’s the order,” he added, hand- 
ing him a slip of paper on which he had written the 
menu. “Begone.” 

“Messieurs,” continued Marcel, addressing the three 
young men, “ you invited me to supper last night, per- 
mit me to invite you to breakfast this morning — not in 
my rooms, but in yours,” he added, offering Schaunard 
his hand. 

At the conclusion of the repast, Rodolphe claimed the 
floor. 

“Messieurs,” he said, “allow me to leave you.” 

“Oh! no,” said Schaunard sentimentally, “let us 
never part.” 

“True, we are very comfortable here,” added Colline. 

“To leave you for a moment,” continued Rodolphe ; 


44 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ to-morrow, L * Acharpe d '* Iris appears, a journal of 
fashion, of which I am editor-in-chief ; and I must go 
and correct my proofs : I will return in an hour.” 

“ The devil ! ” said Colline, “ that reminds me that I 
have to give a lesson to an Indian prince, who has come 
to Paris to learn Arabic.” 

“ You can go to-morrow,” said Marcel. 

“ Oh ! no,” rejoined the philosopher, “the prince is 
to pay me to-day. And then, I will admit that this 
fine day would be ruined for me if I didn’t go and take 
a little turn at the old bookshops.” 

“ But you will return? ” Schaunard asked. 

“ With the rapidity of an arrow discharged by a sure 
hand,” replied the philosopher, who was fond of eccen- 
tric metaphors, and he went out with Rodolphe. 

“ By the way,” said Schaunard, when he was left alone 
with Marcel, “ suppose that, instead of pampering my- 
self on the pillow of the dolce far niente , I should go to 
try to find some gold with which to appease Monsieur 
Bernard’s cupidity?” 

“ Why,” said Marcel uneasily, “ do you still intend to 
move? ” 

“ The devil! ” replied Schaunard, “ I must, as I have 
a notice to quit, cost five francs.” 

“ But,” Marcel continued, “ if you move, will you 
take away your furniture? ” 

“I should say so; I won’t leave a hair, as Monsieur 
Bernard says.” 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 45 

“ The devil ! that will embarrass me, for I hired your 
room furnished.” 

“ The deuce ! that’s a fact,” said Schaunard. “ But 
alas ! ” he added in a melancholy tone, “ there is noth- 
ing to prove that I shall find my seventy-five francs to- 
day or to-morrow or the day after.” 

“Wait a moment,” exclaimed Marcel, “I have an 
idea.” 

“ Trot it out,” said Schaunard. 

“ This is the condition of affairs : legally, this lodging 
is mine, as I paid a month’s rent in advance.” 

“ The lodging, yes ; but as to the furniture, if I pay 
what I owe, I have a legal right to take it away ; and, if 
it were possible, I’d take it away, legally or illegally,” 
said Schaunard. 

“ So that you have furniture and no lodging,” rejoined 
Marcel, “ and I have a lodging and no furniture.” 

“ That’s about it,” said Schaunard. 

“ For my part, I like this lodging,” said Marcel. 

“ And so do I,” added Schaunard ; “ I never liked it 
better than at this moment.” 

“What do you say? ” 

“ Liked it better for liked it more. Oh ! I know how 
to talk ! ” 

“ Well, we can arrange matters,” said Marcel ; “ stay 
with me, I’ll furnish the lodging and you furnish the 
furniture.” 

“And the rent?” queried Schaunard. 


46 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ As I have money to-day, I’ll pay it ; the next time 
it will be your turn. Think it over.” 

“ I never think anything over, especially a proposition 
that pleases me ; I accept on the spot : after all, paint- 
ing and music are sisters.” 

“Sisters-in-law,” said Marcel. 

At that moment Colline and Rodolphe returned, hav- 
ing met outside. 

Marcel and Schaunard informed them of their part- 
nership. 

“ Messieurs,” cried Rodolphe, jingling the coin in his 
pocket, “ I invite the company to dinner.” 

“ That is precisely what I proposed to have the honor 
of suggesting,” said Colline, taking a gold piece from his 
pocket and sticking it in his eye. “ My prince gave 
me this to purchase a Hindostanee-Arabic grammar, for 
which I paid six sous cash.” 

“And I,” said Rodolphe, “procured an advance of 

/ 

thirty francs from the treasurer of L ’Echarpe d’ Iris, on 
the plea that I needed it to pay for being vaccinated.” 

“So this is the day for receipts, is it?” said Schau- 
nard; I’m the only one who hasn’t given away any- 
thing; it’s humiliating.” 

“ Meanwhile,” Rodolphe added, “ my invitation to 
dinner holds good.” 

“ And mine, too,” said Colline. 

“I’ll tell you,” said Rodolphe, “we’ll toss up to see 
which of us shall pay the bill.” 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 


47 


“ No,” cried Schaunard. “ I have something better ; 
oh ! infinitely better than that to suggest, to relieve your 
embarrassment.” 

“ What is it? ” 

“ Let Rodolphe pay for the dinner and Colline invite 
us to supper.” 

“ That’s what I call the jurisprudence of Solomon,” 
cried the philosopher. 

“ It’s worse than Gamache’s wedding,” added 
Marcel. 

The dinner was given in a Provencal restaurant on 
Rue Dauphine, famous for its literary v/aiters and its 
ayoli. As it was necessary to leave room for the supper, 
they ate and drank moderately. The acquaintance be- 
gun the night before between Colline and Schaunard, 
and later between them both and Marcel, became more 
intimate ; each of the four young men hoisted the flag of 
his own opinion on artistic matters ; all four recognized 
the fact that they were equal in courage and had like 
hopes. As they talked and discussed, they discovered 
that their likes and dislikes were the same, that they all 
had a like dexterity in the art of witty fencing, which 
enlivens without wounding, and that all the attractive 
virtues of youth had left no void in their hearts, which 
were easily moved by the sight or description of any- 
thing beautiful. All four, having set out from the same 
point to reach the same goal, believed that there was in 
their meeting something more than the commonplace 


4 8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


jesting of chance, and that it might well be Providence, 
the natural guardian of the deserted, who placed them 
thus hand in hand, and whispered low in their ears the 
parable of the gospel, which should be the only chart for 
the guidance of mankind : “ Be of good cheer and love 
one another.’ ’ 

At the conclusion of the dinner, which came to an 
end in something like gravity, Rodolphe rose to propose 
a toast to the future, and Colline replied with a little 
speech which was taken from no old book, had no sug- 
gestion of a flowery style, but was couched in the simple 
pathos of perfect frankness which conveys so clearly the 
idea that it expresses so ill. 

“ What a fool this philosopher is ! ” muttered 
Schaunard, with his nose in his glass ; “ he actuallycom- 
pels me to put water in my wine.” 

After dinner they adjourned to Momus, where they 
had passed the preceding evening, for a cup of coffee. 
From that day forth, the cafe became uninhabitable for 
its other frequenters. 

After the coffee and liqueurs the Bohemian clan, be- 
ing definitively established, returned to Marcel’s apart- 
ment, which received the name of Elysee Schaunard. 
While Colline went to order the supper he had prom- 
ised, the others procured bombs, rockets and other pyro- 
technical pieces ; and before taking their places at the 
table, they discharged, through the window, a mag- 
nificent collection of fireworks, which turned the whole 


HOW THE BOHEMIAN CLUB WAS ORGANIZED 49 

house topsy-turvy, and during which the four friends 
sang at the top of their voices : 

“ Let us celebrate, celebrate, celebrate this glorious day ! ” 

The next morning they found themselves together 
once more, but that time they were not surprised. Be- 
fore separating to attend to their respective affairs, they 
went together to partake of a frugal breakfast at the 
Caf£ Momus, where they made an appointment to meet 
in the evening, and whither they repaired regularly every 
day for a long while. 

Such are the principal characters who will reappear in 
the brief sketches which go to make up this volume, 
which is not a novel and makes no pretensions beyond 
those indicated by its title ; for the Scenes from Life in 
Bohemia are in fact nothing more than studies in man- 
ners, the heroes of which belong to a class hitherto sadly 
misjudged, whose main default is lack of order ; and 
they may well excuse themselves on the ground that 
that same lack of order is a necessity imposed upon 
them by life itself. 

4 


t 



II 


A MESSENGER FROM PROVIDENCE 

Schaunard and Marcel, who had set valiantly to work 
betimes in the morning, suddenly suspended their 
labors. 

“ Sacrebleu ! how hungry lam!” exclaimed Schau- 
nard ; and he added negligently : “ Don’t we breakfast 

to-day? ” 

Marcel seemed very much astonished at this question, 
which was never more untimely. 

“ Since when have we been in the habit of breakfast- 
ing two days in succession?” he said. “Yesterday 
was Thursday.” 

And he finished his rejoinder by pointing with his 
maul-stick to the precept of the church : 

“ On Friday flesh thou shalt not eat 
Nor anything that’s like thereto.” 

Schaunard had no answer to make and returned to 
his picture, which represented a field occupied by a red 
tree and a blue tree shaking hands with their branches. 

(51) 


52 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


A transparent allusion to the joys of friendship, which 
was in truth very philosophical. 

At that moment the concierge knocked at the door. 
He brought a letter for Marcel. 

“Three sous,” he said. 

“Are you sure?” inquired the artist. “All right, 
you can owe them to us.” And he shut the door in his 
face. 

Marcel had taken the letter and broken the seal. At 
the first words, he began to leap around the studio like 
an acrobat and to thunder at the top of his voice the fol- 
lowing famous ballad, which denoted in him the apogee 
of exultation : 

Four youths there were in our quarter, 

And these four youths fell sick ; 

They packed them off to the Hotel-Dieu 
Eu ! eu ! eu ! eu ! 

“ Even so,” said Schaunard, and he continued : 

In one large bed the four were put, 

Two at the head and two at the foot. 

“We know that.” 

Marcel went on : 

They saw a “ Little Sister” come, 

Uml um I um I um ! 

“If you don’t keep quiet,” said Schaunard, who 
already felt symptoms of mental alienation, “ I’ll perform 


A MESSENGER FROM PROVIDENCE 


53 

the allegro of my symphony on the influence of blue in the 
arts ” 

And he walked toward his piano. 

That threat produced the effect of a drop of cold 
water falling into a boiling liquid. 

Marcel became composed as if by enchantment. 

“Here,” said he, passing the letter to his friend. 
“ Look at this.” 

It was an invitation to dinner from a member of the 
Chamber of Deputies, an enlightened patron of the arts 
and of Marcel in particular, who had painted a portrait 
of his country house. 

“ It’s for to-day,” said Schaunard ; “ it’s a pity the 
card isn’t good for two. But now I think of it, your de- 
puty’s a ministerialist ; you cannot, you must not accept. 
Your principles forbid you to eat bread soaked in the 
sweat of the people.” 

“ Bah ! ” said Marcel, “ my deputy’s of the Left 
Centre ; he voted against the government the other day. 
Besides, he may get an order for me, and he has prom- 
ised to present me in society ; and then, you see, even 
if it is Friday, I’m as voracious asUgolino and I propose 
to dine to-day, that’s all.” 

“There are other obstacles too,” pursued Schaunard, 
who did not fail to be a little jealous of the good fortune 
that had fallen to his friend’s lot. “You can’t dine out 
in a red jacket and a waterman’s cap.” 

“ I’ll go and borrow Colline’s clothes or Rodolphe’s.” 


54 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Young idiot ! do you forget that the twentieth of the 
month has passed, and that at this time those gentlemen’s 
clothes are pawned and repawned ? ” 

“ I can at least find a black coat between now and 
five o’clock.” 

“ It took me three weeks to find one when I went to 
my cousin’s wedding ; and that was early in January.” 

“ Very well, then I’ll go as I am,” retorted Marcel, 
striding back and forth. “It shan’t be said that a 
wretched question of etiquette prevented me from taking 
my first step in society.” 

“By the way,” interposed Schaunard, taking much 
pleasure in vexing his friend, “how about boots? ” 

Marcel rushed from the room in a state of agitation 
impossible to describe. Two hours later he returned 
with a false collar. 

“That’s all I have been able to find,” he said pite- 
ously. 

“It wasn’t worth while to run your legs off for so 
little,” replied Schaunard, “ there’s paper enough here to 
make a dozen.” 

“But,” said Marcel, tearing his hair, “we must have 
something here, damnation ! ” 

And he began an exhaustive search in every corner of 
the two rooms. 

After an hour’s work, he got together a costume made 
up as follows : 

Scotch pantaloons, 


A MESSENGER FROM PROVIDENCE 


55 


A gray hat, 

A red cravat, 

One glove formerly white, 

One black glove. 

“ You can pass them off for a pair of black gloves, if 
necessary,” said Schaunard. “ But when you are dressed, 
you’ll look like the solar spectrum. And you a colorist, 
too ! ” 

Meanwhile Marcel was trying on boots. 

Fatality ! It was impossible to find mates ! 

The artist, in despair, cast his eye upon an old boot 
in a corner, that was used as a waste-basket. He pounced 
upon it. 

“From Garrick to Syllabe said his satirical com- 
panion ; “ this one is pointed and the other square.” 

“ Nobody will notice that, and I’ll polish them.” 

“ That’s an idea ! all you need now is the regulation 
black coat.” 

“Oh ! ” said Marcel, gnawing his knuckles, “I would 
give ten years of my life and my right hand for one ! ” 

There was another knock at the door. Marcel opened 
it. 

“Monsieur Schaunard?” queried a stranger, who 
stood in the doorway. 

“ I am he,” the painter replied, requesting him to 
enter. 

“ Monsieur,” said the unknown, who possessed a guile- 
less, honest face of the true provincial type, “ my cousin 


56 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


has told me much of your talent for painting portraits ; 
and being on the point of making a journey to the 
colonies, where I am sent by the suga£$efiners of the 
city of Nantes, I desired to leave my femily something 
to remember me by. That is why I have called on you.” 

“O blessed Providence ! ” muttered Schaunard. 
“ Marcel, give monsieur a chair.” 

“ Monsieur Blancheron,” continued the stranger; 
“Blancheron of Nantes, agent of the sugar- refiners, ex- 
mayor of V , captain in the National Guard, and 

author of a pamphlet on the sugar question.” 

“ I am highly honored by having been selected by you 
for the work,” said the artist, bowing low to the sugar 
refiners’ agent. “ How would you like to have your por- 
trait?” 

“ In miniature, like that,” replied Monsieur Blan- 
cheron, indicating a portrait in oil ; for in his mind as in 
that of many other people, everything that is not house- 
painting is miniature ; there is nothing between. 

This proof of innocence gave Schaunard the measure 
of the goodman with whom he had to do, especially 
when he added that he wished his portrait to be done 
in fine colors. 

“ I use no others,” said Schaunard. “ How large 
does monsieur wish his portrait to be? ” 

“As large as that,” replied Monsieur Blancheron, 
pointing to a canvas twenty inches square. “ But what 
will be the price of that? ” 


PROVIDENCE 57 

fifty without the hands, 

something about thirty 

“It depends on the season,” said the painter; 
“ colors are much dearer at some times of the year.” 

“ Like sugar, eh? ” 

“ Precisely.” 

“ Fifty francs it is then,” said Monsieur Blancheron. 

“ You are making a mistake ; for ten francs more you 
could have the hands and I would put your pamphlet on 
the sugar question in them, which would be a flattering 
thing for you.” 

“ On my word, you are right.” 

“ Sacrebleu / ” said Schaunard to himself, “if he 
keeps on, I shall burst, and wound him with one of the 
pieces.” 

“ Have you noticed? ” Marcel whispered in his ear. 

“What ?” 

“ He has a black coat.” 

“ I understand and I catch your idea. Let me deal 
with him.” 

“Well, monsieur,” said the refiners’ agent, “when 
will you begin? we must not delay, for I start very 
soon.” 

“ I have to take a little trip myself ; I leave Paris the 
day after to-morrow. So, if you are willing, we will begin 
at once. One good sitting will give us a fair start.” 


A MESSENGER FROM 


“ From fifty to sixty francs ; 
sixty with.” 

“ The devil ! if usin said 




58 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ But it will soon be dark and you can’t work by 
candlelight,” said Monsieur Blancheron. 

“My studio is arranged so that . L,can work at all 
hours,” rejoined the painter. “ If you will kindly re- 
move your coat, and pose, we will begin.” 

“ Take off my coat ! What for? ” 

“ Didn’t you say that you intend your portrait for 
your family? ” 

“ To be sure.” 

“Very well; then you should be painted in the cos- 
tume you wear in the house, in your dressing-gown. 
It’s the custom, too.” 

“But I have no dressing-gown here.” 

“ But I have. The emergency is provided for,” said 
Schaunard, handing his model a ragged garment embel- 
lished with spots of paint which made the worthy pro- 
vincial hesitate at first. 

“This is a very strange garment,” he said. 

“And very valuable,” rejoined the painter. “It was 
presented by a Turkish vizier to Monsieur Horace 
Vernet, who presented it to me. I am a pupil of his.” 

“You are a pupil of Vernet ?” said Blancheron. 

“ Yes, monsieur, I am proud to say that I am — Hor- 
rible,” he muttered under his breath, “I am denying 
my gods.” 

“You have reason to be proud, young man,” said the 
agent, putting on the dressing-gown that had such a 
noble origin. 


A MESSENGER FROM PROVIDENCE 


59 

“Hang monsieur’s coat in the wardrobe,” said Schau- 
nard to his friend, with a significant wink. 

“ I say,” Marcel whispered as he pounced upon his 
prey, “ he’s very good ! suppose you could keep a piece 
of him? ” 

“ I will try ! but never mind about that, dress yourself 
quickly and off you go. Be back at ten o’clock, I’ll 
keep him till then. Above all, bring me back some- 
thing in your pockets.” 

“ I’ll bring you a pineapple,” said Marcel, hurrying 
from the room. 

He dressed in hot haste — the coat fitted him like a 
glove — then went out into the hall by the other door. 

Schaunard had set about his task. It was quite dark 
when Monsieur Blancheron heard the clock strike six 
and remembered that he had not dined. He so in- 
formed the painter. 

“ I am in the same fix ; but, to accommodate you, I 
will go without my dinner to-night. By the way, I was 
invited to dine with a friend in Faubourg Saint-Germain. 
But we can’t stop now, it would endanger the resem- 
blance.” 

He returned to his work. 

“After all,” he said suddenly, “we can dine without 
interfering with our work. There’s an excellent restau- 
rant near by; they’ll send up whatever we want.” 

Schaunard awaited the effect of his trio of plurals. 

“Iam obliged for your suggestion,” said Monsieur 


6o 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Blancheron, “ and I am pleased to think that, in return 
for it, you will do me the honor to be my guest.” 

Schaunard bowed. 

“Upon my word,” he said to himself, “he’s a fine 
fellow, a veritable messenger from Providence. Will 
you write the order? ” he asked his host. 

“ You will oblige me if you will take that upon your- 
self,” he replied politely. 

“You will repent of it, Nicolas,” sang the painter, 
as he went down the stairs four by four. 

He entered the restaurant, went to the desk and drew 
up a bill of fare that made the wine-shop Vatel turn pale. 

“And Bordeaux a 1’ ordinaire ” 

“ Who’s to pay? ” 

“Not I probably,” said Schaunard, “but an uncle of 
mine whom you will see upstairs, a great epicure. So 
try to distinguish yourself and see that we are served in 
half an hour, and above all things, on fine china.” 

At eight o’clock, Monsieur Blancheron felt that he 
must pour his ideas upon the sugar industry into a 
friendly bosom, and he repeated his pamphlet to Schau- 
nard. 

The latter accompanied him on the piano. 

At ten o’clock, Monsieur Blancheron and his friend 
were dancing the galop and calling each other “thee” 
and “ thou.” At eleven, they swore never to part, and 
made wills wherein each left his whole fortune to the other. 


A MESSENGER FROM PROVIDENCE 


61 


At midnight, Marcel returned and found them locked 
in each other’s arms; they were weeping copiously. 
There was already half an inch of water in the studio. 
Marcel stumbled against the table, and saw there the 
glorious remains of the superb banquet. He examined 
the bottles ; they were all absolutely empty. 

He tried to wake Schaunard, but he threatened to 
kill him if he attempted to rouse Monsieur Blan- 
cheron, whom he was using for a pillow. 

“ Ingrate ! ” said Marcel, taking a handful of nuts 
from his coat pocket. “When I brought him some 
dinner ! ” 







Ill 

LENTEN AMOURS 

One evening during Lent, Rodolphe returned home 
early, intending to work. But he had no sooner seated 
himself at the table and dipped his pen in the inkstand, 
than his attention was attracted by a strange noise ; 
and, applying his ear to the frail partition that separated 
him from the adjoining room, he listened, and dis- 
tinguished perfectly a dialogue of kisses, alternating 
with other amorous onomatopoetic sounds. 

“ The devil ! ” thought Rodolphe, glancing at his 
clock, “ it isn’t late, and my neighbor is a Juliet who 
ordinarily keeps her Romeo long after the lark’s song. 
I shall not be able to work to-night.” 

So he took his hat and went out. 

As he left the key at the lodge, he found the con- 
cierge’s wife half-imprisoned in the embrace of a gal- 
lant. The poor woman was so terrified that it was five 
minutes before she was able to draw the cord. 

"After all,” thought Rodolphe, “ there are moments 
when concierges’ wives become women once more.” 

(63) 


6 4 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


As he opened the door, he found a fireman and a 
cook in a corner, hand in hand and exchanging the 
earnest money of love. 

“ Parbleu!" exclaimed Rodolphe, alluding to the 
fire-fighter and his buxom companion, “ those heretics 
seem to forget that this is Lent.” 

And he went his way to call on one of his friends 
who lived near by. 

“ If Marcel is at home,” he said to himself, “ we will 
pass the evening blackguarding Colline. One must do 
something.” 

As he knocked lustily, the door was partly opened, 
and a young man simply clad in an eyeglass and a shirt 
made his appearance. 

“ I can’t let you in,” he said to Rodolphe. 

“ Why not ? ” asked the latter. 

“ Look ! ” said Marcel, pointing to a female face 
that was visible behind a curtain ; “ there is my 

answer.” 

“ She’s not beautiful,” replied Rodolphe, as the door 
was shut in his face. "Well,” he said to himself when 
he was in the street, “ now what shall I do ? Suppose 
I should go and see Colline ? We could pass the time 
speaking ill of Marcel.” 

As he passed through Rue de l’Ouest, ordinarily 
dark and unfrequented, Rodolphe distinguished a 
shadow walking along mechanically, mumbling rhymes 
between his teeth. 


LENTEN AMOURS 65 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” said Rodolphe, “ what sonnet is that 
hanging about here ? I say, Colline ! ” 

“ Hallo, Rodolphe ! Where are you going ? ” 

“To your house.” 

“You won’t find me there.” 

“ What are you doing here ? ” 

“ Waiting.” 

“ What are you waiting for ? ” 

“Ah!” said Colline with mocking emphasis, “what 
does a man wait for when he is twenty years old, when 
there are stars in the heavens and ballads in the air ? ” 

“ Speak in prose.” 

“ I am waiting for a woman.” 

“ Good-evening,” said Rodolphe ; and he went his 
way soliloquizing. “Pah!” he said, “is this Saint- 
Cupid’s Day, and can’t I take a step without jostling a 
pair of lovers ? It is immoral and scandalous. What 
are the police doing ? ” 

As the Luxembourg was still open, Rodolphe went 
through the garden to shorten his road. Amid the 
deserted paths he constantly saw fleeing before him, as 
if alarmed by his footsteps, couples mysteriously en- 
twined and seeking, as some poet says : “ the double 
joy of silence and of darkness.” 

“ This is an evening that has been copied in a novel,” 
said Rodolphe. And yet, yielding, in spite of himself, 
to a sort of languorous charm, he sat down on a bench 
and gazed sentimentally at the moon. 

5 


66 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


In a short time he was completely under the spell of 
a fevered hallucination. It seemed to him that the 
marble gods and heroes that peopled the garden left 
their pedestals to pay court to their neighbors, the god- 
desses and heroines ; and he distinctly heard the huge 
Hercules pay a fulsome compliment to the Velteda, 
whose tunic seemed to him to have grown shorter to an 
extraordinary degree. 

From the bench on which he was sitting, he saw the 
swan in the basin swimming toward a nymph on the 
shore. 

“ Good ! ” thought Rodolphe, who accepted all the 
legends of mythology; “there’s Jupiter going to keep 
his appointment with Leda. If only the watchman 
doesn’t take them by surprise ! ” 

Then he took his head in his hands and plunged still 
deeper among the hawthorns of sentiment. But at that 
blissful point in his dream, Rodolphe was suddenly 
awakened by a watchman, who approached him and 
tapped him on the shoulder. 

“You must go out, monsieur,” he said. 

“That’s fortunate,” thought Rodolphe. “If I stayed 
there five minutes longer, I should have more vergiss- 
mein-nicht in my heart than there is on the shores of 
the Rhine or in Alphonse Karr’s novels.” 

He went hurriedly forth from the Luxembourg, hum- 
ming in a low voice a sentimental ballad, which was to 
him the Marseillaise of love. 


LENTEN AMOURS 67 

Half an hour later, he was at the Prado — no one 
knows how he got there — sitting in front of a bowl of 
punch and talking with a tall young man remarkable by 
reason of his nose, which has the unusual privilege of 
being aquiline in profile and flat when looked at in 
front ; a master nose, which does not lack wit, and has 
had enough amorous adventures to be able to give 
sound advice and to be useful to a friend in such 
matters. 

“And so,” said Alexandre Schaunard, the man with 
the nose, “ you are in love ! ” 

“ Yes, my dear fellow — it took me just now, suddenly, 
as if I had a horrible toothache in the heart.” 

“ Pass me the tobacco,” said Alexandre. 

“ Just consider,” continued Rodolphe, “ that for two 
whole hours I have met nobody but lovers, men and 
women, two by two. It occurred to me to go into the 
Luxembourg, where I saw all sorts of phantasmagoria, 
and it stirred my heart to an extraordinary degree ; ele- 
giacs are springing in my brain ; I bleat and I coo ; I 
am becoming half lamb, half pigeon. Just look me over. 
I must have wool and feathers.” 

“What have you been drinking ?” asked Alexandre, 
impatiently; “ you make a fool of me.” 

“I assure you that I am perfectly cool,” said Ro- 
dolphe. “ Not just that, either. But I will tell you that 
I feel the need of kissing somebody. You see, Alexan- 
dre, man ought not to live alone ; in a word, you must 


68 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


help me to find a woman. We’ll make a tour of the ball 
rooms, and the first one I point out to you, you must go 
and tell her I love her.” 

“Why not go and tell her so yourself? ” replied Alex- 
andre with his superb nasal bass. 

“ Why, my dear fellow,” said Rodolphe, “ I assure 
you that I have altogether forgotten how you go to work 
to say such things. My friends have written the prefaces 
to all my love stories, and the endings of some of them. 
I never knew how to begin.” 

“ It’s enough to know how to end,” said Alexandre ; 
“ but I understand you. I have seen a girl who is very 
fond of the hautboy, and perhaps you’ll suit her.” 

“Ah ! ” rejoined Rodolphe, “ I would like her to wear 
white gloves, and have blue eyes.” 

“ The devil ! Blue eyes are all right — but as to the 
gloves — you can’t have everything at once, you know. 
However, let’s go into the aristocratic quarter.” 

“ Look,” said Rodolphe, as they entered a salon, where 
the fashionable damsels of the district congregate, 
“ there’s one who looks very sweet and nice; ” and he 
pointed to a fashionably dressed young girl who was 
standing in a corner. 

“ All right ! ” said Alexandre, “stay back a little and 
I will throw the burning brand of passion at her for you. 
When it’s time for you to come, I’ll call you.” 

For ten minutes Alexandre talked to the girl, who, 
from time to time, laughed heartily, and ended by dart- 


LENTEN AMOURS 69 

ing a smile at Rodolphe which meant : “ Come, your 

advocate has won his case.” 

“Go on,” said Alexandre, “the victory is with us; 
the little one is not inclined to be cruel, I fancy, but 
play the innocent to begin with.” 

“ You don’t need to give me that advice.” 

“ Then give me a little tobacco,” said Alexandre, “ and 
go and sit down with her.” 

“Mon Dieu /” said the girl, when Rodolphe took his 
place beside her ; “ how amusing your friend is ! he 
talks like a hunting-horn ! ” 

“He’s a musician, you see,” said Rodolphe. 

“ Two hours later, Rodolphe and his companion were 
in front of a house on Rue Saint-Denis. 

“ This is where I live,” said the girl. 

“ Well, dear Louise, when shall I see you again, and 
where? ” 

“ At eight o’clock to-morrow evening at your rooms.” 

“ Sure?” 

“ There’s my promise,” said Louise, offering her rosy 
cheeks to Rodolphe, who bit eagerly at that lovely ripe 
fruit of youth and health. 

Rodolphe returned home drunk with passion. 

“ Ah ! ” he said, as he strode up and down his cham- 
ber, “ this will never do. I must write some poetry.” 

The next morning his concierge found in the room 
some thirty sheets of paper, at the top of which was this 
one line in majestic solitude : 


7 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


O Love ! O love ! the prince of youth ! 

On that next morning, Rodolphe, contrary to his usual 
custom, awoke very early, and, although he had slept 
little, he arose at once. 

“Ah!” he cried, “ so to-day is the great day. But 
twelve hours to wait — how shall I while away those 
twelve eternities? ” 

As his glance fell upon his desk, it seemed to him that 
he could see his pen move as if it would say to him : 
“Work!” 

“ Ah ! yes, work indeed ! the devil take the work ! I 
can’t stay here, it smells of ink.” 

He installed himself in a caf£, where he was sure of 
not meeting any of his friends. 

“They would see that I’m in love,” he thought, “and 
make up their minds about my ideal in advance.” 

After a very brief meal, he hurried to the railway sta- 
tion and entered a carriage. 

Half an hour later he was in the woods of Ville 
d’Avray. 

He walked about all day amid the signs of the rejuve- 
nation of nature, and did not return to Paris until 
nightfall. 

After putting in order the temple that was to receive 
his idol, Rodolphe made a special toilet for the occasion, 
and sorely regretted his inability to dress in white. 

From seven to eight o’clock he was a victim of the 
cruel fever of suspense, a slow torture which recalled his 


LENTEN AMOURS 


7 1 

earlier days and the love-affairs which had made them 
delightful. Then, according to his custom, he began to 
dream of a grand passion, a love-affair in ten volumes, a 
veritable lyric poem with moonlight, sunsets, appoint- 
ments under the willows, jealousy, sighs and the rest. It 
was so whenever chance brought a woman to his door, 
and not one had left him without a halo around her head, 
and a necklace of tears on her neck. 

“They would prefer a hat or a pair of boots,” his 
friends used to say. 

But Rodolphe persisted, and the numerous mistakes 
he had committed had thus far failed to cure him. He 
was still waiting for a woman who would be willing to 
pose as an idol, an angel in a velvet robe, to whom he 
could at his ease address sonnets written on willow 
leaves. 

At last Rodolphe heard the clock strike the “blessed 
hour,” and as the last stroke of the bell rang out, he 
thought that he saw the Cupid and Psyche on top of the 
clock entwine their alabaster bodies. At the same mo- 
ment some one tapped timidly at the door. 

Rodolphe opened the door ; it was Louise. 

“ I keep my word, you see,” she said. 

Rodolphe drew the curtains and lighted a fresh candle. 

Meanwhile, the little one had removed her hat and 
shawl which she placed on the bed. The dazzling white- 
ness of the sheets made her smile and almost blush. 

Louise was rather pleasing than pretty ; her fresh face 


72 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


presented a tempting mixture of innocence and mischief. 
She was something like one of Greuze’s figures arranged 
by Gavarni. All the fascinating youthfulness of the girl 
was brought out by a costume, which, although very 
simple, bore witness to that innate science of coquetry 
which all women possess from their first swaddling-clothes 
to their wedding-gown. Louise seemed, furthermore, to 
have made a special study of the theory of attitudes, and 
assumed before Rodolphe, who examined her as an artist, 
a multitude of seductive poses, which were more notice- 
able for grace than for naturalness ; her daintily shod 
feet were satisfactorily small — even for a romantic crea- 
ture enamored of Andalusian or Chinese miniatures. The 
delicacy of her hands bore witness to an idle life. In- 
deed for six months past they had had no reason to fear 
the wounds of the needle. In a word, Louise was one 
of those fickle birds of passage who, from caprice and 
often from need, build their nests for a day, or rather 
for a night, in the attics of the Latin Quarter, and are 
willing to remain a few days if you know how to detain 
them by a caprice or by ribbons. 

After talking an hour with Louise, Rodolphe called her 
attention to Cupid and Psyche as a precedent. 

“ Isn’t it a Paul and Virginie ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes,” said Rodolphe, who did not wish to annoy her 
at the outset by a contradiction. 

“They’re well copied,” said Louise. 

“Alas ! ” thought Rodolphe as he gazed at her, “the 


LENTEN AMOURS 


73 


poor child isn’t exactly literary. I am sure that she 
confines herself to the orthography of the heart, which 
doesn’t add an s in the plural. I must buy her a 
grammar.” 

Meanwhile, as Louise complained that her shoes hurt 
her, he obligingly assisted her to unlace them. 

Suddenly the light went out. 

“ Hallo ! ” cried Rodolphe, “ who blew out the 
candle? ” 

A merry peal of laughter was the answer. 

A few days later, Rodolphe met one of his friends in 
the street. 

“What are you doing nowadays?” his friend asked 
him. “ No one ever sees you.” 

“ I am writing domestic poetry,” Rodolphe replied. 

The poor fellow told the truth. He had chosen to 
ask more of Louise than the poor child could give him. 
Bagpipe that she was, she had not the tones of a lyre. 
She talked the patois of love, and Rodolphe insisted 
upon talking high-flown language. And so they hardly 
understood each other. 

A week later, at the same ball room at which she had 
fallen in with Rodolphe, Louise met a fair-haired young 
man, who danced with her several times, and at the close 
of the evening took her home with him. 

He was a student in his second year, he spoke the prose 
of pleasure very fluently, had fine eyes and a jingling 
pocket. 


74 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Louise asked him for paper and ink and wrote Ro- 
dolphe a letter in these words : 

“ Do not recon on me any more at all. I kis you for the last 
tim. Good-by.” 

“ Louise.” 

As Rodolphe was reading this epistle after he returned 
home that night, his light went out. 

“ Ah ! ” said Rodolphe pensively, “ that’s the candle I 
lighted the night Louise came ; it was bound to end with 
our liaison. If I had known, I’d have chosen a longer 
one,” he added in a tone that was half displeasure, half 
regret ; and he placed his mistress’s note in a drawer 
which he sometimes called the catacombs of his amours. 

One day when he was at Marcel’s, Rodolphe picked 
up from the floor, to light his pipe, a bit of paper on 
which he recognized Louise’s handwriting and orthog- 
raphy. 

“ I have an autograph letter from the same person ; 
but there are two mistakes less than in yours,” he said. 
“ Doesn’t that prove that she loved me better than 
you?” 

“ It proves that you’re a fool,” Marcel replied ; “ white 
shoulders and white arms don’t need to know grammar.” 


IV 


ALI-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 

Ostracized by a heartless landlord, Rodolphe lived 
for some time a life more errant than the clouds, and did 
his best to perfect the art of going to bed without sup- 
ping or of supping without going to bed ; his cook’s 
name was Chance, and he lodged frequently at the inn 
of La Belle Etoile . 2 

There were two things, however, that did not desert 
Rodolphe amid his painful reverses — those were his good- 
humor and the manuscript of the Vengeur , a drama 
which had made stops at all the dramatic posting-stations 
in Paris. 

One day Rodolphe, being taken to the lock-up be- 
cause of a too frolicsome choregraphic performance, 
found himself face to face with an uncle of his, Sieur 
Monetti, a stove-maker and chimney-builder, and ser- 
geant in the National Guard, whom Rodolphe had not 
seen for an eternity. 

Touched by his nephew’s misfortunes, Uncle Monetti 
promised to better his condition, and we will go and see 
(7 5 ) 




76 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

how he did it, if the reader is not frightened at having 
to ascend six flights of stairs. 

Let us seize the stair-rail and go up. Ouf ! a hun- 
dred and twenty-five stairs. Here we are at last. One 
step more and we are in the room, another, and we 
should be out of it. It is small, but it is high; fresh 
air, moreover, and a beautiful view. 

The furniture consists of several Prussian chimneys, 
two stoves, economical furnaces — especially when no fire 
is built in them — a dozen or more pipes made of red 
clay or sheet- iron, and a great variety of heating ap- 
paratus; to close the inventory, we will mention a 
hammock hanging from two nails driven into the 
wall, a garden chair minus one leg, a candlestick 
with its bobeche , and divers other objects of art and 
fantasy. 

The second room was transformed into a park for the 
summer by a balcony and two dwarf cypresses. 

At the moment that we enter, the host, a young man 
dressed like a Turk in an opera comique, is finishing a 
repast in which he impudently defies the law of the 
prophet, as the presence of what was once a ham and a 
bottle originally full of wine sufficiently indicate. His 
repast at an end, the young Turk stretches himself out 
in Eastern fashion on the floor and begins nonchalantly 
to smoke a nargileh marked J. G. Yielding to the de- 
licious sense of Asiatic felicity, he passes his hand from 
time to time over the back of a superb Newfoundland 


ALI-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 77 

dog, which would doubtless return his caresses if it were 
not made of terra cotta. 

Suddenly the sound of footsteps was heard in the 
corridor and the chamber door opened, giving admit- 
tance to a person who, without speaking, walked directly 
to one of the stoves which did duty as a secretary, 
opened the oven door and took out a roll of papers, 
which he examined carefully. 

“ How’s this ! ” cried the newcomer with a strong 
Piedmontese accent, “ haven’t you finished the chapter 
on Ventilators yet? ” 

“ Allow me, uncle,” replied the Turk ; “ the chapter 
on Ventilators is one of the most interesting in your 
work, and requires to be studied with care. I am 
studying it.” 

“ But you always tell me the same thing, you wretch. 
And how about my chapter on Airtight Stoves ? ” 

“The Airtights are coming on. But, by the way, 
uncle, if you could give me a little wood, I wouldn’t 
mind. It’s a little Siberia here. I’m so cold that I 
could send the thermometer down below zero simply by 
looking at it.” 

“What, have you used up a bundle of wood al- 
ready ? ” 

“ Excuse me, uncle, there are bundles and bundles, 
and yours was very small.” 

“ I’ll send you some economical fuel. It retains the 
heat.” 


7 8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“That’s just why it doesn’t give out any.” 

“All right,” said the Piedmontese, leaving the room 
again, “ I’ll send you a small bundle of wood. But I 
want my chapter on Airtight Stoves for to-morrow.” 

“When I have a fire, it will inspire me,” said the 
Turk, whom his uncle had locked into the room. 

If we were writing a tragedy, this would be the 
moment to introduce the confidant. His name would 
be Noureddin or Osman, and with a discreet and, at the 
same time, patronizing manner, he would walk up to our 
hero and would adroitly extort verses from him by the 
aid of these : 

My lord, what grief besets you now ? 

And why so blanched your noble brow ? 

Does Allah thwart your soul’s desire ? 

Or Ali fierce, with vengeful ire, 

Your secret gained, to distant shore 
Expel the charmer you adore ? 

But we are not writing tragedy, and, despite our 
need of a confidant, we must do without one. 

Our hero is not what he seems to be, the turban does 
not make the Turk. The young man is our friend 
Rodolphe, taken in by his uncle, for whom he is at pres- 
ent preparing a manual of the Perfect Chimney- Builder. 
In truth, Monsieur Monetti, passionately devoted to 
his trade, had consecrated his life to chimney-building. 
The worthy Piedmontese had adopted for his own use a 
maxim almost identical with Cicero’s, and in his en- 


AL1-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 79 

thusiastic moments he cried : Nascuntur poe-liers ! 3 
One day it had occurred to him to formulate, for the 
use of future races, a code of the theoretical principles 
of an art in the practice of which he excelled, and he 
had, as we have seen, selected his nephew to clothe his 
ideas in a form which would make them comprehen- 
sible. Rodolphe was boarded, lodged, etc., and was to 
receive a fee of three hundred francs on the com- 
pletion of the Manual. 

In the beginning, to encourage his nephew in the 
work, Monetti had generously advanced him fifty francs. 
But Rodolphe, who had not seen such a sum for nearly a 
year, left the house half insane, accompanied by his 
money, and remained away three days : on the fourth 
day he returned alone ! 

Monetti, who was in great haste to see the com- 
pletion of his Manual \ for he expected to obtain a 
diploma, dreaded some new escapade on his nephew’s 
part ; and in order to compel him to work by prevent- 
ing him from going out, he took away his clothes and 
left in their place the disguise in which we have just 
seen him arrayed. 

The famous Manual ’ however, continued to advance 
piano , piano , Rodolphe being absolutely without the 
necessary chords for that variety of literature. The 
uncle took his revenge for his indolent indifference to 
the subject of chimneys by compelling his nephew to 
undergo a multitude of privations. Sometimes he cut 


8o 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


down his supplies of food, and he often deprived him of 
smoking tobacco. 

One Sunday, after he had laboriously sweated blood 
and ink over the famous chapter on Ventilators, Rodolphe 
broke his quill, which burned his fingers, and went out to 
walk in his park. 

As if to taunt him and excite his envy in addition, he 
could not venture to glance in any direction without see- 
ing a smoker at every window. 

On the gilded balcony of a newly-built house, a dandy 
in a dressing-gown held the aristocratic panatella between 
his teeth. On the floor above, an artist exhaled the 
fragrant mist of Turkish tobacco burning in a pipe 
with an amber mouthpiece. At the window of a tavern, 
a burly German was consuming beer and expelling, 
with mathematical precision, opaque clouds of smoke 
from a meerschaum pipe. In every other direction, groups 
of workmen passed singing on their way to the barriers, 
their short clay-pipes between their teeth. Indeed, 
all the foot-passengers with whom the street was filled 
were smoking. 

“ Alas ! ” Rodolphe exclaimed enviously, “ everybody 
in creation is smoking at this moment, except myself and 
my uncle’s chimneys.” 

He rested his head against the balcony rail and thought 
how full of bitterness life was. 

Suddenly he heard a prolonged, ringing peal of 
laughter below him. He leaned over to see whence 


<*ti)apter FkT 


^ — 

He transformed a coverlid into a knotted rope and tied 
it firmly to his balcony rail ; and despite the perilous 
undertaking , he descended to Mademoiselle Sidonie’s 
balcony. 




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V>ss£> \Vsxst m^wV^ isA q\ nj»r*\ Vs 
o\ taYuraub bs\ 



































ALI-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 81 


that volley of wild glee came, and he perceived that he 
had been perceived by the tenant of the floor below, 
Mademoiselle Sidonie, a jeune premiere at the Theatre du 
Luxembourg. 

Mademoiselle Sidonie came out upon her balcony, 
rolling between her fingers, with true Castilian dexterity, 
a bit of paper filled with light-colored tobacco, which she 
took from an embroidered velvet pouch. 

“ Oh ! the lovely tobacco-pouch ! ” murmured Ro- 
dolphe in contemplative admiration. 

“Who is that Ali-Baba?” Mademoiselle Sidonie was 
thinking. 

And she cudgelled her brains for a pretext for opening 
a conversation with Rodolphe, who, for his part, was 
doing the same. 

“ Ah ! men Dieu / ' ' cried Mademoiselle Sidonie, as if 
she were talking to herself ; ** mon Dieu / what a bore ! 
I haven’t a match.” 

“ Will you allow me to offer you one, mademoiselle? ” 
said Rodolphe, dropping two or three matches wrapped 
in paper. 

“ A thousand thanks ! ” said Sidonie, lighting her 
cigarette. 

“ Mon Dieu, mademoiselle,” continued Rodolphe, 
“ shall I venture to ask you, in exchange for the trifling 
service which my good angel allowed me to render 


“ What ! he is asking already ! ” thought Sidonie, 
6 


82 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


looking at Rodolphe more attentively. “ Ah ! these 
Turks ! ” she said to herself ; “ they say they are fickle, 
but very pleasant. Speak, monsieur,” she said aloud, 
looking up at Rodolphe ; “ what do you wish? ” 

“Mon Dieu , mademoiselle, I will ask you for the 
boon of a little tobacco ; it’s two days since I have 
smoked. Just one pipeful.” 

“With pleasure, monsieur. But how can I do it? 
If you will take the trouble to come down one flight.” 

“ Alas I that is impossible. I am locked in ; but I am 
free to employ a very simple method,” said Rodolphe. 

He tied his pipe to a string and lowered it to the bal- 
cony, where Mademoiselle Sidonie filled it generously. 
Rodolphe then proceeded, slowly and cautiously, to draw 
it up and recovered it safely. 

“Ah! mademoiselle!” he said to Sidonie, “how 
much sweeter this pipe would taste if I could have lighted 
it at the fire of your eyes.” 

This agreeable pleasantry was in its hundredth edition 
at least, but Mademoiselle Sidonie considered it most 
magnificent, none the less. 

“You flatter me ! ” she thought it her duty to reply. 

“ Ah ! mademoiselle, I assure you that you seem to 
me as lovely as the three Graces.” 

“ Really, Ali-Baba is very polite,” thought Sidonie. 
“Are you really a Turk?” she asked Rodolphe. 

“ Not by preference,” he said, “ but from necessity ; I 
am a dramatic author, madame.” 


ALI-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 83 

“And I a dramatic artist,” said Sidonie. “Mon- 
sieur my neighbor,” she added, “will you do me the 
honor to dine and pass the evening with me?” 

“ Alas ! mademoiselle, although that suggestion opens 
the gates of heaven to me, it is impossible for me to 
accept. As I have had the honor to tell you, I am 
locked in by my uncle, Sieur Monetti, stove-maker and 
chimney-builder, whose secretary I at present am.” 

“You shall dine with me, none the less,” rejoined 
Sidonie ; “ listen to what I say : I will go back into my 
room and knock on the ceiling. Look carefully at the 
spot where I knock and you will find the marks of a small 
window that used to be there and was closed up ; find 
some way of removing the piece of wood with which the 
hole is stopped up, and, although we shall both be in our 
own rooms, we shall be almost together.” 

Rodolphe set to work at once. Within five minutes 
communication was established between the two rooms. 

“ It’s a small hole,” said Rodolphe, “ but it will be 
large enough for me to pass my heart through to you.” 

“Now we will dine,” said Sidonie. “Set your table 
and I’ll pass you the things to eat.” 

Rodolphe lowered his turban at the end of a string 
and drew it back filled with eatables; whereupon the 
poet and the artiste dined together, in their respective 
quarters. Rodolphe devoured the pat£ with his teeth and 
Mademoiselle Sidonie with his eyes. 

“Ah! mademoiselle,” said Rodolphe when they had 


8 4 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


finished their repast, “thanks to you, my stomach is 
satisfied. Could you not satisfy also the hunger of my 
heart which has fasted so long? ” 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Sidonie ; and, standing on a chair, 
she put her hand to Rodolphe’s lips, which gloved it with 
kisses. 

“ Alas ! ” he cried, “ what a pity that you can’t do as 
Saint-Denis did, who enjoyed the privilege of carrying 
his head in his hands.” 

After dinner they engaged in an amoroso-literary con- 
versation. Rodolphe mentioned the Vengeur , and Ma- 
demoiselle Sidonie asked him to read it. Leaning 
over the edge of the hole, Rodolphe began to declaim 
his drama to the actress, who, in order to be as near as 
possible, had seated herself in an armchair mounted 
on a commode. Mademoiselle Sidonie declared the 
Vengeur a masterpiece ; and as she enjoyed some little 
authority at the theatre, she promised Rodolphe that 
his play should be accepted there. 

At the most touching moment of their interview, uncle 
Monetti’s step, as light and airy as the Commander's,* 
was heard in the corridor. Rodolphe barely had time to 
close the opening. 

“ Here’s a letter that’s been chasing around after you 
for a month,” said Monetti to his nephew. 

“Let me see it,” said Rodolphe. — “Ah! uncle,” he 
cried, “ I am rich ! This letter tells me that I have won 
a prize of three hundred francs in a competition for 


ALI-RODOLPHE, OR THE TURK FROM NECESSITY 85 

Floral Games. Give me my coat and my other clothes 
quickly, that I may go to gather my laurels ! They await 
me at the Capitol.” 

“And what about my chapter on Ventilators? ” said 
Monetti coldly. 

“ Eh ! much I care for that, uncle ! Give me my 
clothes. I don’t want to go out in this rig.” 

“You won’t go out till my Manual is finished,” said 
the uncle, giving the key a double turn. 

Rodolphe, once more alone, did not hesitate as to the 
course he should take. He transformed a coverlid into 
a knotted rope and tied it firmly to his balcony rail ; 
and, despite the perilous nature of the undertaking, he 
descended with the aid of this improvised ladder to 
Mademoiselle Sidonie’s balcony. 

“Who’s there?” she cried, as Rodolphe knocked at 
her window. 

“Hush ! ” he replied ; “ open ” 

“ What do you want ? Who are you?” 

“Can you ask? I am the author of the Vengeur , 
and I have come in search of my heart which I dropped 
into your room through the skylight.” 

“Unhappy youth,” said the actress; “you might 
have killed yourself.” 

“Listen, Sidonie,” rejoined Rodolphe, showing her 
the letter he had received. “ As you see, fortune 
and glory smile upon me — let love follow their ex- 
ample ! ” 


86 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


The next morning, with the aid of a masculine dis- 
guise furnished by Sidonie, Rodolphe was able to escape 
from his uncle’s house. He hurried to the correspondent 
of the conductors of the Floral Games, and received a 
golden eglantine of about the worth of a hundred crowns, 
which lived almost as long as the roses live. 

A month later Monsieur Monetti was invited by his 
nephew to be present at the first performance of the 
Vengeur. Thanks to Mademoiselle Sidonie’s talent, the 
piece was played seventeen times, and brought its author 
forty francs. 

Some time after — it was in the summer — Rodolphe was 
living on Avenue Saint Cloud, on the fifth branch of the 
third tree at your left as you leave the Bois de Boulogne. 


V 

CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 

Toward the close of the month of December, the post- 
men employed by the Bidault administration were called 
upon to distribute about one hundred copies of an invi- 
tation, of which we certify the following to be a true and 
faithful copy : 

“ Monsieur 

“ Messieurs Rodolphe and Marcel request you to do 
them the honor of passing the evening with them on 
Saturday next, Christmas eve. There will be sport. 

“ P. S. — We have but one life ! ! 

“PROGRAMME OF FESTIVITIES 

“ At 7 o’clock, the salons will be open ; brisk and ani- 
mated conversation. 

“ At 8 o’clock, grand entree and promenade through 
the salons by the clever authors of the Mountain in La- 
bor, a comedy declined at the Theatre de l’Od^on. 

“At 8.30 o’clock, Monsieur Alexandre Schaunard, a 

(87) 


88 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


distinguished musical artist, will perform on the piano 
the Influence of the Blue in Art \ an imitative symphony. 

“ At 9, first reading of the memorial concerning the 
abolition of the torture of tragedy. 

“At 9.30, Monsieur Gustave Colline, hyperphysical 
philosopher, and Monsieur Schaunard will indulge in a 
discussion of the comparative merits of philosophy and 
metapolitics. In order to avoid any possible collision 
between the two disputants, they will be tied together. 

“At 10, Monsieur Tristan, man of letters, will describe 
his first love-affairs. Monsieur Alexandre Schaunard will 
accompany him on the piano. 

“At 10.30, second reading of the Memorial concern- 
ing the abolition of the torture of tragedy. 

“At 11, description of a cassowary hunt, by a foreign 
prince. 


SECOND PART 

“ At midnight, Monsieur Marcel, historical painter, will 
have his eyes blindfolded, and will sketch in chalk the 
interview between Napoleon and Voltaire in the Elysian 
Fields. Monsieur Rodolphe will at the same time pre- 
sent an extemporaneous parallel between the author of 
Zaire and the author of the Battle of Austerlitz. 

“At 12.30, Monsieur Gustave Colline, in modest des- 
habille, will imitate the athletic games of the 4th 
Olympiad. 

At 1 o’clock in the morning, third reading of the Me- 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


89 

morial concerning the abolition of the torture of tragedy, 
and collection for the benefit of the tragic authors who 
may some day find themselves out of employment. 

“At 2, opening of the games and formation of quad- 
rilles, which will last till morning. 

“ At 6 o’clock, sunrise and final chorus. 

“ Throughout the festivities, ventilators will be in oper- 
ation. 

“ N. B. — Any person who shall undertake to read or 
recite poetry will be instantly removed from the salons 
and turned over to the police ; guests are also requested 
not to carry away candle-ends.” 

Two days later, copies of this invitation were in circu- 
lation in the lowest depths of literature and art, and 
caused a profound sensation there. 

There were some, however, among the invited guests 
who cast doubt on the splendors promised by the two 
friends. 

“ I’m very sceptical,” said one ; “ I have been to Ro- 
dolphe’s Wednesdays now and then on Rue de la Tour 
d’ Auvergne. There was no chance to sit down except in 
your mind’s eye, and nothing to drink but filtered water 
in eclectic pottery.” 

“ This time it’s a serious matter,” said another ; “ Mar- 
cel showed me the scheme of the entertainment, and it 
promises to be wonderfully effective.” 

“Will there be women?” 


9 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“Yes. Phemie Teinturiere has asked to be queen of 
the fete, and Schaunard is to bring some society women.” 

This, in a few words, was the origin of this function, 
which caused such profound amazement in the Bohe- 
mian world that lives on the other side of the bridges. 
For a year past Marcel and Rodolphe had announced 
this luxurious entertainment, which was always to take 
place next Saturday ; but painful circumstances had com- 
pelled their promise to make a fifty-two weeks’ tour, so 
that they had reached a point where they could not take 
a step without colliding with some ironical remark from 
their friends, among whom there were those who were 
unmannerly enough to make emphatic demands upon 
them for the promised diversion. As the thing was be- 
ginning to be tiresome, the two friends determined to 
put an end to it by carrying out the engagements they 
had entered into. Thus it was that they had sent the 
above invitation. 

“Now,” said Rodolphe, “there is no drawing back, 
we have burned our ships, and we have a week to find 
the hundred francs that are absolutely indispensable in 
order to do the thing properly.” 

“As we must have them, we shall have them,” Marcel 
replied. And the two friends fell asleep, trusting se- 
renely in Chance and convinced that their hundred 
francs were already on the road — the road of the impos- 
sible. 

But on the second day before that appointed for the 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


9 


fete, as nothing had turned up, Rodolphe thought that 
it would perhaps be the surer way to give Chance a lift, 
if he did not wish to be disgraced when the time came 
to light the candles. To lighten the task, the friends 
made various modifications in the sumptuous bill of fare 
they had intended to provide. 

And by these successive modifications, after they had 
ut down the article Cakes a considerable extent, and 
..ad carefully reviewed and lessened in length the article 
Refreshments, the total expense was reduced to fifteen 
francs. 

The problem was simplified but not yet solved. 

“Well,” said Rodolphe, “now we must employ heroic 
measures : of course we cannot relax our efforts now.” 

“ Impossible,” said Marcel. 

“ How long is it since I heard the story of the Battle 
of Studzianka? ” 

“About two months.” 

“Two months, good, that’s a reasonable time, my 
uncle can’t complain. I’ll go to-morrow and have him 
tell me about the Battle of Studzianka ; that will mean 
five francs, sure.” 

“And I,” said Marcel, “ will go and sell old Medicis 
a Deserted Manor-house. That will make five francs 
more. If I have time to put in three turrets and a mill, 
it will be worth ten francs to me perhaps, and our bud- 
get will be complete.” 

And the friends went to sleep, dreaming that the Prin- 


92 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


cesse de Belgiojoso begged them to change their recep- 
tion days in order not to take away her habitues. 

Rising betimes, Marcel took a canvas and proceeded 
hastily to the construction of a Deserted Manor-house , 
an article which was in special request at a second-hand 
dealer’s in Place du Carrousel. Rodolphe meanwhile 
went to call upon his uncle Monetti, who excelled in 
describing the retreat from Russia, and to whom Ro- 
dolphe afforded five or six times a year, in serious emer- 
gencies, the satisfaction of telling the story of his cam- 
paigns, in consideration of a small loan, which the stove- 
making, chimney-building veteran hardly ever refused if 
his listener displayed abundant enthusiasm over his nar- 
rative. 

About two o’clock, Marcel, with a cloud on his brow 
and a picture under his arm, met Rodolphe on Place du 
Carrousel returning from his uncle’s; his manner an- 
nounced bad news. 

“Well,” said Marcel, “did you succeed?” 

“ No, my uncle has gone to Versailles to see the mu- 
seum. And you?” 

“ That beast of a M^dicis doesn’t want any more 
Ruined Chateaux; he has ordered a Bombardment of 
Tangier." 

“ Our reputations are ruined if we don’t give our 
party,” muttered Rodolphe. “ What will our friend the 
influential critic think, if I make him put on a white 
cravat and yellow gloves for nothing? ” 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


93 

They returned together to the studio, torn by keen 
anxiety. 

At that moment a clock in the neighborhood struck 
four. 

“We have only three hours before us,” said Rodolphe. 

“ But,” cried Marcel, walking up to his friend, “ are 
you quite sure, very sure, that we haven’t any money left 
here? Eh?” 

“ Neither here nor elsewhere. What would it be left 
from?” 

“ Suppose we look under the furniture — in the chairs ? 
They say that the emigres used to hide their treasures in 
Robespierre’s time. Who knows? Perhaps our easy 
chair belongs to an emigre ; indeed it’s so hard that I 
have often had an idea that there was metal in the seat. 
Shall we make an autopsy? ” 

“That’s all nonsense,” rejoined Rodolphe, in a tone in 
which severity was mingled with indulgence. 

Suddenly Marcel, who had continued his investigations 
in every corner of the studio, uttered a loud shout of 
triumph. 

“We are saved ! ” he cried, “I was sure that there 
were valuables here. Here, look at this ! ” and he 
showed Rodolphe a piece of money about the size of a 
crown and half-eaten by rust and verdigris. 

It was a Carlovingian coin of some artistic value. 
The legend was luckily preserved, and they could make 
out a date in the reign of Charlemagne. 


94 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ That’s worth thirty sous,” said Rodolphe with a dis- 
dainful glance at his friend’s find. 

“Thirty sous well employed produce a great effect,” 
replied Marcel. “With twelve hundred men Bonaparte 
compelled ten thousand Austrians to surrender. Skill is 
of equal value with numbers. I am going to change 
Charlemagne’s crown at old M£dicis’. Isn’t there any- 
thing else here that we can sell? Look here, suppose I 
take the casting of the tibia of Jaconowski, the Russian 
drum-major? it would make a good club.” 

“ Take the tibia. But it’s too bad, we shan’t have a 
single object of art left here.” 

During Marcel’s absence, Rodolphe, who was deter- 
mined to give the party whether or not, called upon his 
friend Colline, the hyperphysical philosopher, who lived 
only a few steps away. 

“ I have come to ask you to do me a favor,” he said. 
“ As master of the house, I absolutely must have a dress 
coat, and — I haven’t one — lend me yours.” 

“But,” said Colline, hesitating, “as an invited guest, 
I need my dress coat myself.” 

“ I give you leave to come in your frock-coat.” 

“ I never owned a frock-coat, you know very well.” 

“Well, listen, we can arrange it another way. If need 
be you can stay away from my party and lend me your 
dress coat.” 

“ That would be very unpleasant ; besides, I am on the 
programme, I can’t fail.” 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


95 


“ There are plenty of other things that will fail,” said 
Rodolphe. “ Lend me your dress coat, and, if you 
choose to come, come as you choose — in your shirt 
sleeves — you can pass yourself off -as a faithful ser- 
vant.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” said Colline, blushing. “ I’ll wear my nut- 
brown great-coat. But after all, it’s very disagreeable, do 
you know.” And as he saw that Rodolphe had already 
taken possession of the famous dress coat, he cried : 

“Just wait a moment — There are some few little 
things in the pockets.” 

Colline’s coat deserves special mention. In the first 
place it was unmistakably blue, and it was from habit 
solely that Colline called it his black coat. As he was 
at that time the only one of the little band who possessed 
a dress coat, his friends also had acquired the habit of 
saying, when they spoke of the philosopher’s state gar- 
ment : “ Colline’s dress coat.” Furthermore, that cele- 
brated garment had a peculiar shape, the most peculiar 
that you can imagine : in the very long skirts, attached 
to a very short waist, were two pockets, veritable caverns, 
in which Colline was accustomed to accommodate some 
thirty or more volumes which he always had about him : 
a peculiarity which led his friends to say that, during 
the vacation at the libraries, scholars and men of letters 
could go for information to the skirts of Colline’s coat, 
a library that was always open to readers. 

On that day, by some extraordinary chance, the coat 


96 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


contained only a quarto volume of Bayle, a treatise on 
the hyperphysical faculties, in three volumes, a volume 
of Condillac, two of Swedenborg, and Pope’s Essay on 
Man. When he had emptied his coat-library, he allowed 
Rodolphe to put it on. 

“ Here,” said the latter, “ the left pocket is very 
heavy still ; you have left something in it.” 

“Ah! yes,” said Colline, “I forgot to empty the 
foreign languages pocket.” And he took out an Arabic 
grammar, a Malayan dictionary, and a Perfect Drover in 
Chinese, his favorite reading. 

When Rodolphe returned home, he found Marcel play- 
ing with five-franc pieces to the number of three. Obey- 
ing his first impulse, Rodolphe pushed back the hand his 
friend offered him ; he thought he must have committed 
a crime. 

“ Let us make haste, let us make haste,” said Marcel. 
“We have the fifteen francs we wanted. This is how I 
got them. I met an antiquary at Medicis.’ When he 
saw my coin he nearly fainted away : it was the only 
one lacking in his collection. He had sent all over the 
world to fill the gap and had lost all hope. And so, 
when he had examined my Charlemagne piece, he didn’t 
hesitate a moment about offering me five francs. 
Medicis nudged my elbow and his look did the rest. 
It said : ‘ Divide the price with me and I’ll bid him up.’ 
We went up to thirty francs. I gave the Jew fifteen and 
here’s the rest. Now our guests can come, for we’re in 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


97 


a condition to dazzle them. Oho ! so you have a dress 
coat, have you?” 

“Yes,” said Rodolphe, “Colline’s.” And as he was 
feeling in the pocket for his handkerchief, he pulled out 
a small volume in Manchurian, which had been over- 
looked in the foreign languages pocket. 

The two friends proceeded at once to their prepara- 
tions. They put the studio in order, they made a fire in 
the stove ; a canvas frame, with candles attached, was 
suspended from the ceiling in the guise of a chandelier, a 
desk was placed in the centre of the studio to serve as a 
tribune for the orators ; they placed it in front of the 
only armchair, which was to be occupied by the influ- 
ential critic, and arranged on a table all the volumes, — 
novels, poems, feuilletons , — whose authors were to honor 
the occasion with their presence. In order to avoid any 
collision between the different corps of men of letters, 
the studio was divided into four compartments, at the 
entrances of which, upon four hastily constructed pla- 
cards, could be read : 

Poets Romanticists 

Prose writers Classicists 

The ladies were to occupy a space reserved for them 
in the centre. 

“By the way, chairs are rather scarce,” said Ro- 
dolphe. 

7 


9 8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ I tell you,” said Marcel, “ there are several chairs 
standing against the wall in the corridor. Suppose we 
gather them in ! ” 

“ Certainly we must gather them in,” said Rodolphe, 
at once taking possession of the chairs, which belonged 
to some neighbor. 

Six o’clock struck ; the two friends went out and dined 
in haste, then returned to illuminate the salons. They 
were fairly dazzled themselves. At seven o’clock Schau- 
nard arrived, accompanied by three ladies who had for- 
gotten to bring their diamonds and their hats. One of 
them had a red shawl with black spots. Schaunard 
called Rodolphe’s attention to her particularly. 

“She’s a very comme il /^w/woman,” he said, “an 
Englishwoman driven into exile by the fall of the Stuarts ; 
she makes a modest living by giving lessons in English. 
Her father was Chancellor under Cromwell, so she tells 
me ; you must be polite to her ; don’t be too familiar.” 

Numerous footsteps were heard on the stairs ; the 
guests were arriving ; they seemed astonished to see a 
fire in the stove. 

Rodolphe’s dress coat went to meet the ladies and 
kissed their hands with a grace reminiscent of the 
Regency ; when there were about a score present, 
Schaunard asked if they could not have a drink of some- 
thing. 

“ Directly,” said Marcel ; “ we are waiting for the in- 
fluential critic to arrive before lighting the punch.” 


CHARLEMAGNE’S CROWN 


99 


At eight o’clock, the invited guests had all arrived and 
they began to carry out the programme. The members 
alternated with drinks of something; none ever knew 
what. 

About ten o’clock the white waistcoat of the influen- 
tial critic appeared ; he remained only an hour and was 
very moderate in his libations. 

About midnight, as there was no more wood and it 
was very cold, the guests who were seated drew lots to 
see who should throw his chair into the fire. 

At one o’clock they were all on their feet. 

Nothing occurred to disturb the good-humored gayety 
that prevailed. There were no incidents to be regret- 
ted, except a rent in the foreign language pocket of 
Colline’s coat, and a cuff administered by Schaunard to 
the daughter of Cromwell’s chancellor. 

The memorable affair was the subject of gossip in the 
quarter for a week; and Phemie Teinturiere, who was 
the queen of the fete, was accustomed to say in speaking 
of it to her friends : 

“ It was mighty fine ; there were wax candles, my 
dear.” 


VI 

MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 

Mademoiselle Musette was a pretty girl of twenty, 
who, shortly after her arrival in Paris, became what 
pretty girls generally become when they have a slender 
waist, a large stock of coquetry, a little ambition and 
almost no orthography. After she had been for a long 
while the delight of supper-parties in the Latin Quarter, 
where she would sing in a voice that was always very 
fresh, if not very true, a great number of country ditties, 
which won for her the name under which the most cun- 
ning lapidaries of rhyme have since made her famous, 
Mademoiselle Musette suddenly left Rue de la Harpe to 
dwell on the Cytherean heights of the Breda Quarter. 

She soon became one of the lionesses of the aristoc- 
racy of pleasure, and made gradual progress toward that 
celebrity which consists in being mentioned in the Paris 
newspapers or sold in lithographs at picture-dealers. 

And yet Mademoiselle Musette was an exception 
among the women in the midst of whom she lived. Of 

an instinctively refined and poetic nature, like all women 
(ioi) 


102 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


who are truly women, she loved wealth and all the en- 
joyments it affords ; her coquettish fancy ardently desired 
all that was beautiful and distinguished; girl of the 
people that she was, she would have been in no wise 
out of her element amid the most royal luxury. But 
Mademoiselle Musette, who was young and fair, would 
never have consented to be the mistress of a man who 
was not young and fair like herself. She had once 
bravely declined the magnificent offers of an old man 
who was so rich that he was called the Peru of the 
Chauss£e-d’Antin and who had placed a golden staircase 
at the feet of Musette’s caprices. She was intelligent 
and bright and had a repugnance for fools and nin- 
nies whatever their age, name or title. 

A lovely and excellent girl, therefore, was Musette, 
who in love adopted half of Champfort’s celebrated 
aphorism : “ Love is the interchange of two caprices.” 
So it was that her liaisons had never been preceded by 
any of those shameful bargains which dishonor modern 
gallantry. As she herself said, Musette played with her 
cards on the table and demanded to be repaid in the 
coin of sincerity. 

But although her attachments were spontaneous and 
warm, they were never sufficiently lasting to reach the 
height of a passion. And the extraordinary mobility of 
her fancies, the little anxiety she manifested to look 
at the purse or the boots of those who tried to play 
the gallant, imported a great deal of variety into her 


MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 103 

life, which was a perpetual alternation of blue-lined 
coupes and omnibuses, entresols and fifth floors, silk 
dresses and calico dresses. O, charming damsel ! thou 
living poem of youth with the ringing laugh and the joy- 
ous song ! thou pitiful heart, beating for everybody be- 
neath the half-open kerchief ! O Mademoiselle Musette ! 
sister of Bernerette and Mimi Pinson ! it would need the 
pen of Alfred de Musset worthily to tell the story of you 1 * 
heedless, vagabond course through the flowery paths . . 
youth; and he would .certainly have wished to im- 
mortalize you, if he had, as I have, heard you sing in 
your pretty false voice this rustic stanza of one of your 
favorite ballads : 

One day when Spring the earth new blessed, 

A lover true I stood confessed, 

A brunette’s lover I, 

A cupid’s heart she bore ; 

And poised like butterfly 
The dainty cap she wore. 

The story we are about to tell is one of the most 
charming episodes in the life of that charming ad- 
venturess, who so often threw conventionality to the 
winds. 

At a time when she was the mistress of a young Coun- 
cillor of State, who had gallantly placed in her hands the 
key to his patrimony, Mademoiselle Musette was ac- 
customed to give evening parties once a week in her 
pretty little salon on Rue de la Bruyere. Those parties 


104 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


resembled the majority of similar functions in Paris, 
with the difference that the guests enjoyed themselves 
there ; when there was not enough room, they sat in one 
another’s laps, and it often happened that the same 
glass served for two. Rodolphe, who was a friend of 
Musette, and who was never anything more than a friend 
— neither of them ever knew why — Rodolphe asked 
Musette’s permission to bring the painter Marcel ; a 
talented fellow, he added, for whom the future was 
embroidering an academician’s coat. 

“ Bring him ! ” said Musette. 

On the evening when they were to go to Musette’s 
together, Rodolphe called at Marcel’s room for him. 
The artist was dressing. 

“ What ! ” said Rodolphe, “are you going into society 
with a colored shirt? ” 

“ Does that wound ' custom ? ” inquired Marcel 
calmly. 

“ Wound it ? to the quick, misguided youth.” 

“ The devil ! ” said Marcel, gazing at his shirt, which 
had a blue ground, with vignettes representing wild 
boars chased by a pack of hounds, “ you see I haven’t any 
other here. Bah ! never mind ! I’ll wear a false collar, 
and as Methuselah buttons up to my neck, no one will 
see the color of my linen.” 

“What!” said Rodolphe uneasily, “are you going 
to wear Methuselah again ? ” 

“Alas! I must,” said Marcel; “God wills it, and so 


Chapter Vi 


Ignorant of the fact that she strongly suspected herself 
of being in love with him , he looked every morning at the 
flowers whose death was to mark the close of their liaison , 
and he was sorely puzzled to explai?i their constantly- 
renewed freshness. But at last he procured the key to 
the mystery : one night he awoke and found that Musette 
was not by his side. He rose and looked around the room 
and found his mistress taking advantage of his slumber 
to water the flowers and keep them alive. 


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MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 


io 5 

does my tailor ; besides it has a new set of buttons 
and I’ve patched it as well as I could with black 
stuff.” 

Methuselah was Marcel’s dress coat ; he called it by 
that name because it was the dean of his wardrobe. 
Methuselah was made in the latest style of four years 
before, and was, moreover, of an atrocious green ; but 
Marcel declared that, by candlelight, it made a good 
black. 

In five minutes Marcel was dressed ; he was dressed 
in the most perfect bad taste : the costume of a studio 
drudge going into society. 

Monsieur Casimir Bonjour will not be so surprised on 
the day he hears of his election to the Institute, as Marcel 
and Rodolphe were upon arriving at Mademoiselle 
Musette’s house. This was the reason of their sur- 
prise : — Mademoiselle Musette, who had fallen out 
some time before with her lover the Councillor of State, 
had been abandoned by him at a very critical moment. 
She was sued by her tradesmen and her landlord, and 
her furniture had been seized and taken down into 
the courtyard, to be carried away and sold the next 
day. Despite that incident it did not for a moment 
occur to Mademoiselle Musette to disappoint her guests, 
and she did not renounce her evening at home. In all 
seriousness, she ordered the courtyard to be arranged 
as a salon, spread a carpet on the ground, prepared 
everything as usual, dressed to receive her guests and 


io6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


invited all the other tenants to her little fete, to whose 
splendor the good Lord vouchsafed to contribute the 
illumination. 

The joke was a tremendous success ; Musette’s even- 
ings had never been so animated and hilarious; they 
were still dancing and singing when the agents came to 
take away furniture and carpets, and the company was 
compelled to retire. 

Musette escorted all her guests to the street, sing- 
ing: 

“ They’ll talk a long while, la ri ra, 

Of my Thursday evening’s glee ; 

They’ll talk a long while, la ri ri.” 

Marcel and Rodolphe were left alone with Musette, 
who had gone up to her room, where there was nothing 
but the bed. 

“Ah $a ! ” said Musette, “ my adventure isn’t so 
amusing as it was; you see I shall have to go and 
take lodgings in the open air. I am well acquainted 
with those lodgings ; there are horrible draughts 
there.” 

“Ah! madame,” said Marcel, “if I had the power 
of Plutus, I should be glad to offer you a temple more 
beautiful than Solomon’s, but — ” 

“You are not Plutus, my friend. All the same I 
thank you for your good intentions. Pshaw ! ” she 
added, glancing around the apartment, “ I was awfully 
bored here; and then the . furniture was old, I’d had 


MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 


107 

it nearly six months! But that’s not all; after the 
ball, people sup, I suppose .” 

“ Let us sup-pose then,” said Marcel, who had a 
mania for punning, especially in the morning, when 
he was terrible. 

As Rodolphe had won some money at a game of 
ansquenet which had been in progress during the night, 
e took Marcel and Musette to a restaurant that had 
; ast opened. 

After breakfast, the three boon companions, who 
had no desire to sleep, spoke of finishing the day in the 
country, and as they were near a railway station, they 
took the first train that was ready to start, and were 
landed at Saint-Germain. 

They wandered through the woods all day, and did 
not return to Paris until seven in the evening, and even 
then in spite of the opposition of Marcel, who insisted 
that it could not be later than half-past twelve, and that 
the reason it was so dark was because it was a 
cloudy day. 

During the night of the fete and the day that fol- 
lowed it, Marcel, whose heart was a magazine that a 
single glance would explode, had fallen in love with 
Mademoiselle Musette and had paid high-colored court 
to her, as he said to Rodolphe. He had gone so far as 
to suggest to the fair damsel that he should purchase 
for her a new supply of furniture finer than the old, 
with the proceeds of the sale of his famous picture, the 


108 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

Passage of the Red Sea. So it was that the artist was 
pained at the thought that the hour was approaching 
when he must part from Musette, who, while allowing 
him to kiss her hands and neck and divers other ac- 
cessories, confined herself to repulsing him gently when- 
ever he attempted to take possession of her heart by 
violence. 

On reaching Paris, Rodolphe left his friend with the 
young woman, who requested the artist to escort her to 
her door. 

“Will you allow me to come to see you ? ” Marcel 
asked ; “ I will paint your portrait.” 

“ My dear friend,” said the pretty creature, “ I can’t 
give you my address, as I shall have none to-morrow ; 
but I will come to see you, and I will mend your 
coat, which has such a great hole that one could move 
out through it without paying the rent.” 

“ I will await you as the Messiah,” said Marcel. 

“ Not so long as that,” said Musette, laughing. 

“ What a charming girl ! ” said Marcel to himself as 
he walked slowly away ; “ she’s the goddess of gayety. 
I will make two holes in my coat.” 

He had not taken thirty steps when he felt a hand on 
his shoulder ; it was Mademoiselle Musette. 

“My dear Monsieur Marcel,” said she, “are you a 
true French knight ? ” 

“I am: 4 Rubens and my lady ’ is my motto. ” 

“ Then listen to my tale of woe and have compassion 


MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 


109 

on me, noble sir,” rejoined Musette, who was slightly 
tinctured with literature, although she committed direful 
St. Bartholomews on syntax ; “ my landlord has taken the 
key to my apartment, and it is eleven o’clock at night : 
do you understand? ” 

“I understand,” said Marcel, offering Musette his 
arm. 

He escorted her to his studio on Quai aux Fleurs. 

Musette was fairly dropping with sleep ; but she still 
had sufficient strength to say to Marcel as she pressed 
his hand : 

“You will remember what you promised me.” 

“ O Musette ! charming damsel ! ” said the artist in a 
slightly tremulous voice, “ you are beneath a hospitable 
roof ; good-night, sleep in peace ! I am going away !” 

“Why?” said Musette, her eyes almost shut; “I’m 
not afraid, I assure you ; there are two rooms, and I’ll 
sleep on your couch.” 

“ My couch is too hard to sleep on, it’s stuffed with 
pebbles. I offer you hospitality in my quarters and I 
am going to ask hospitality from a friend who lives on 
this same floor ; it is the more prudent course,” he said. 
“ I keep my word ordinarily ; but I am twenty- two years 
old and you are eighteen, O Musette ! — and I go. 
Good-night.” 

The next morning, at eight o’clock, Marcel entered 
his room with a jar of flowers he had bought at the 
market. He found Musette, who had thrown herself 


no 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


fully dressed on the bed, still asleep. At the noise 
he made, she awoke and offered Marcel her hand. 

“ Good boy ! ” she said. 

“ Good boy,” Marcel repeated, “isn’t that equivalent 
to mockery? ” 

“ Oh ! why do you say that? ” said Musette ; “ it isn’t 
nice of you ; instead of saying unkind things, offer me 
that pretty jar of flowers.” 

“ I brought it for you,” said Marcel. “ So take it, 
and in return for my hospitality sing me one of your 
pretty songs ; perhaps the echoes of my attic will retain 
something of your voice, and I shall still hear you even 
after you have gone.” 

“ Oho ! so you propose to turn me out of doors, do 
you?” said Musette. “And suppose I don’t choose to 
go? Listen to me, Marcel; I don’t go up thirty-six 
ladders to say what I think. I like you and you like me. 
That isn’t love, but it maybe the seed of it. Very good; 
I’m not going away ; I propose to stay, and to stay until 
the flowers you have just given me have faded.” 

“Ah ! ” cried Marcel, “they will be withered in two 
days; if I had known I’d have brought immortelles.” 

Musette and Marcel had lived together for a fortnight, 
leading the most charming life imaginable, although they 
were often without money. Musette felt for the artist 
an affection which had nothing in common with her 
previous passions, and Marcel was beginning to fear 


MADEMOISELLE MUSETTE 


ill 


that he was seriously in love with his mistress. Ignorant 
of the fact that she strongly suspected herself of being 
in love with him, he looked every morning at the flowers 
whose death was to mark the close of their liaison, and 
he was sorely puzzled to explain their constantly-renewed 
freshness. But at last he procured the key to the mys- 
tery : one night he awoke and found that Musette was 
not by his side. He rose and looked around the room 
and found his mistress taking advantage of his slumber 
to water the flowers and keep them alive. 



VII 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 

It was the 19th of March — and though he should live 
to the advanced age of Monsieur Raoul- Rochette, who 
saw the building of Nineveh, Rodolphe will never forget 
that day ; for, on that day, the feast of St. Joseph, at three 
o’clock in the afternoon, our friend emerged from the office 
of a banker where he had received five hundred francs 
in resonant current coin. 

The first use Rodolphe made of this slice of Peru 
which had fallen into his pocket, was not to pay his 
debts, inasmuch as he had registered an oath internally 
to economize and not to indulge in any extras. More- 
over he had some extraordinarily well-defined ideas on 
that subject, and said that one should provide the neces- 
saries of life, before turning his attention to the super- 
fluities ; that is why he did not pay his creditors but did 
buy a Turkish pipe which he had long coveted. 

Armed with that purchase, he repaired to the abode 
of his friend Marcel, who had furnished him with a lodg- 
ing for some time past, As he entered the artist’s studio, 
Rodolphe’s pockets carolled like a village bell on some 

8 (1 13) 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


114 

great holiday. Hearing that unaccustomed sound, Mar- 
cel supposed that it was one of his neighbors, a great 
bear in the stock market, counting up his profits, and he 
muttered : 

“ There’s that schemer opposite beginning his epi- 
grams again. If this is to last, I shall give notice. It’s 
impossible to work in such an uproar. It makes one 
think of dropping the profession of a poor artist to be- 
come forty thieves.” And without the least suspicion 
that his friend Rodolphe was metamorphosed into a 
Croesus, Marcel returned to his picture of the Passage 
of the Red Sea, which had been on his easel three 
years. 

Rodolphe, who had not yet spoken a word, but was 
ruminating over an experiment he proposed to try on 
his friend, was saying to himself : 

“We will have some sport directly, ah ! how amusing 
it will be, mon Dieu ! ” and he dropped a five-franc piece 
on the floor. 

Marcel raised his eyes and looked at Rodolphe, who 
was as solemn as an article in the Revue des Deux 
Mondes. 

The artist picked up the piece with a well-satisfied 
air and bestowed a warm welcome upon it, for although 
a hard-working artist, he was well brought up, and was 
very civil to strangers. But, knowing that Rodolphe had 
gone out to look for money, and seeing that he had ap- 
parently been successful in his search, Marcel confined 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


Xl 5 

himself to admiring the result without inquiring by what 
means it had been attained. 

He returned to his work therefore without a word and 
finished drowning an Egyptian in the waves of the Red 
Sea. As he was committing that homicidal act, Ro- 
dolphe dropped a second five-franc piece. And, antici- 
pating the face that the painter would make, he began 
to laugh in his beard, which is- tricolored as everybody 
knows. 

At the ringing sound of the metal Marcel sprang sud- 
denly to his feet, as if he had had an electric shock, and 
cried : 

“ How now ! is there a second couplet? ” 

A third piece rolled on the floor, then another, then 
still another ; at last a whole quadrille of coins went 
dancing around the room. 

Marcel began to exhibit unmistakable symptoms of 
mental alienation, and Rodolphe laughed like the pit of 
the Theatre- Frangais at the first performance of Jeanne 
de Flandre. Suddenly, and without any warning, Ro- 
dolphe plunged his hands into his pockets and the coins 
began a fabulous steeple-chase. It was the overflowing 
of Pactolus, the Bacchanalian dance of Jupiter enter- 
ing the apartments of Danae. 

Marcel stood like a statue, dumb, with staring eyes ; 
amazement produced in him a metamorphosis similar to 
that which curiosity brought upon Lot’s wife long ago ; 
and as Rodolphe threw upon the floor his last pile of a 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


1 16 

hundred francs, one whole side of the artist’s body turned 
to salt. 

Rodolphe was still laughing. And beside that tem- 
pestuous hilarity, the thunders of one of Monsieur Sax’s 
orchestras would have seemed like the sighing of children 
at the breast. 

Dazzled, suffocated, stupefied by emotion, Marcel 
thought that he was dreaming; and to drive away the 
nightmare that beset him, he bit his finger till the blood 
came, thereby causing excruciating pain which made 
him cry out. 

He discovered then that he was fully awake ; and find- 
ing that he was trampling gold under his feet, he cried, 
as in tragedies : 

“ Can I believe my eyes ! ” 

He took Rodolphe’s hand in his. 

“ Explain this mystery,” he said. 

“ If I should explain it to you, it wouldn’t be a mys- 
tery.” 

“Tell me what it means.” 

“ This gold is the fruit of the sweat of my brow,” said 
Rodolphe, picking up the money and arranging it on a 
table ; then, stepping back two or three feet, he con- 
templated with respect the five hundred francs arranged 
in piles, and he thought : 

“Am I at last to see the realization of my dreams? ” 

“There must be nearly six thousand francs there,” 
said Marcel to himself, gazing at the coins trembling on 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


117 

the table. “ I have an idea. I will make Rodolphe 
buy my Passage of the. Red Sea.” 

Suddenly Rodolphe assumed a theatrical attitude, and 
with great solemnity of gesture and voice, he said to the 
artist : 

“ Hark ye, Marcel, the fortune which I have caused 
to gleam before your eyes is not the result of base ma- 
noeuvres, I have not traded with my pen, I am rich but 
honest; this gold was given me by a generous hand, 
and I have sworn to use it to acquire by hard work an 
honorable position for a virtuous man. Work is the 
most sacred of duties.” 

“And the horse the noblest of animals,” Marcel in- 
terrupted — “ Bah ! ” he added, “ what does this ha- 
rangue mean, where do you get this prosy stuff? from 
the quarries of the school of common-sense, eh? ” 

“Do not interrupt me, and spare me your mockery,” 
said Rodolphe ; “ it would lose its edge on the cuirass 
of invulnerable determination with which I am protected 
henceforth.” 

“Come, come, enough of such a prologue as this. 
What are you coming at? ” 

“ These are my plans : Being beyond the reach of the 
material annoyances of life, I propose to go to work in 
earnest ; I shall finish my great machine , and I shall set 
myself right in public opinion. In the first place I re- 
nounce Bohemia, I shall dress like other people, I shall 
have a black coat, and I shall frequent the salons. If 


1 1 b 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


you choose to follow in my footsteps, we will continue to 
live together, but you must adopt my programme. The 
strictest economy will preside over our existence. If we 
are able to mend our ways, we have three months of hard 
work assured without anything to worry about. But we 
must be economical.” 

“ My friend,” said Marcel, “ economy is a science 
that is within reach of the rich only, so that you and I 
are ignorant of its first elements. However, if you will 
advance six francs, we can purchase the works of Mon- 
sieur Jean-Baptiste Say, who is a very distinguished econ- 
omist, and perhaps he will teach us how to practise 
the science — I say, is that a Turkish pipe you have 
there?” 

“ Yes,” said Rodolphe, “ I bought it for twenty-five 
francs.” 

“ What ! you put twenty-five francs in a pipe — and 
you talk about economy? ” 

“ Why, this is certainly an economy,” rejoined Ro- 
dolphe ; “ I break a two-sou pipe every day ; that counts 
up at the end of the year to a much larger sum than I 
spent for this — So it’s really a saving.” 

“After all,” said Marcel, “you are right; I shouldn’t 
have thought of that.” 

At that moment a clock in the neighborhood struck 
six. 

“ Let us dine at once,” said Rodolphe, “ I propose 
to make a start this very evening. But, speaking of 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


119 

dinner, this thought occurs to me : every day we waste 
valuable time in doing our own cooking ; now, time is 
the toiler’s treasure, so we must be economical with it. 
Beginning to-day, we will take our meals away from 
home.” 

“Yes,” said Marcel, “there’s an excellent restaurant 
within twenty yards ; it’s a little dear, but as it’s close at 
hand it won't take so long to go there, and we shall 
make up for the extra expense by the time we gain.” 

“ We will go there to-day,” said Rodolphe ; “ but to- 
morrow, or later, we will see about adopting some more 
economical plan; instead of going to the restaurant, 
we’ll hire a cook.” 

“ No, no,” interposed Marcel ; “ rather let us hire a 
man-servant, who will also do our cooking. Here are a 
few of the tremendous, advantages that will result. In 
the first place, our house will always be in order ; he will 
polish our boots, wash my brushes, do our errands; I 
will try to inspire him with a taste for the fine arts, and 
I will make him my drudge. In that way we shall save 
between us at least six hours a day in petty duties and 
chores which would not fail to injure the quality of our 
work.” 

“Ah!” said Rodolphe, “I have another idea — but 
let’s go to dinner.” 

Five minutes later, the two friends were installed in 
one of the private rooms at the neighboring restaurant, 
and continued to discuss economy. 


120 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ This is my idea : Suppose, instead of hiring a man, 
we should take a mistress?” queried Rodolphe. 

“ A mistress for two ! ” said Marcel in dismay ; “ that 
would be avarice carried to the point of extravagance, 
and we should be likely to spend our savings for knives 
to cut each other’s throats. I prefer the servant. In the 
first place, it makes people think well of you.” 

“All right,” said Rodolphe, “we will pick up some 
intelligent fellow, and if he has a smattering of orthog- 
raphy, I’ll teach him to correct proof.” 

“That will be something to turn to in his old age,” 
said Marcel, adding up the bill, which amounted to fif- 
teen francs. “ Look ! it’s pretty high. Usually we 
dine for thirty sous for both.” 

“True,” rejoined Rodolphe, “but we dined badly, 
and were obliged to sup at night. So, take it all in all, 
it’s a saving.” 

“You are too much for me,” murmured the artist, 
vanquished by this logic ; “ you are always right. Are 
we to work to-night? ” 

“ Faith, no. I am going to see my uncle ; he’s an 
excellent man, and I must tell him of my new position ; 
he’ll give me good advice. Where are you going, Mar- 
cel?” 

“ I am going to see old M£dicis to ask him if he can’t 
give me some pictures to restore. By the way, give me 
five francs.” 

“What for?” 






THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 12 1 

“To go across the Pontdes Arts.” 

“ Oh ! that’s a useless expense, and although it’s a 
small matter, it is contrary to our principle.” 

“ I am wrong, I admit,” said Marcel. “ I will go by 
Pont Neuf. But I’ll take a cab.” 

And the two friends parted, each taking a different 
road, which, by a curious chance, led them both to the 
same place, where they met. 

“ Hallo, so you didn’t find your uncle ?” queried Marcel. 

“So you didn’t see M^dicis?” queried Rodolphe. 

And they roared with laughter. 

However, they returned home very early — the next day. 

Two days later Rodolphe and Marcel were completely 
transformed. Dressed like bridegrooms of the first class, 
they were so fine, so resplendent, so elegant, that when 
they met in the street they were slow to recognize each 
other. 

Their system of economy was in full vigor, but they 
found it hard to carry out their scheme of hard work. 
They had hired a man-servant. He was a tall fellow, 
thirty-four years old, of Swiss extraction, and with an in- 
telligence that recalled Jocrisse’s. He was not born to be 
a servant, by the way ; and if one of his masters gave him 
a package to carry that was somewhat large, Baptiste 
would blush with indignation and send a porter on the 
errand. However, Baptiste had his good qualities ; for 
instance, if you gave him a hare, he could make a stew 
of it at need. Furthermore, as he had been a distiller 


122 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


before he became a valet, he had retained a great love 
for his trade, and spent a large part of the time he owed 
his masters in the attempt to compound a new vulnerary 
to which he proposed to give his name ; he was success- 
ful also in brewing ratafia. But where Baptiste had no 
rival was in the art of smoking Marcel’s cigars and light- 
ing them with Rodolphe’s manuscripts. 

One day Marcel attempted to make Baptiste pose in 
the costume of Pharaoh for his picture of the Passage of 
the Red Sea. Baptiste met the suggestion with a down- 
right refusal, and demanded his wages. 

“ Very good,” said Marcel ; “ I will settle your account 
this evening.” 

When Rodolphe returned, his friend informed him 
that they must discharge Baptiste. “ He’s of absolutely 
no use to us,” he said. 

“True,” was Rodolphe’s reply, “he’s a living object 
of art.” 

“ He’s a beast to be cooked.” 

“ He’s a lazy dog.” 

“ We must discharge him.” 

“ Let us discharge him.” 

“ However, he has some good qualities. He makes 
jugged hare very well.” 

“ And ratafia, too. He is the Raphael of ratafia.” 

“Yes, but he’s good for nothing else, and that isn’t 
enough for us. We waste all our time disputing with 
him.” 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


123 


“ He prevents us from working.” 

“ It’s his fault that I shall not have my Passage of the 
Red Sea finished for the Salon. He has refused to pose 
for Pharaoh.” 

“ Thanks to him I haven’t been able to finish the work 
I was asked to do. He wouldn’t go to the library to get 
the notes I needed.” 

“ He is ruining us.” 

" Decidedly we can’t afford to keep him.” 

“ Let’s discharge him. But in that case we must 
pay him.” 

“ We’ll pay him, but let him go ! give me some money 
and I’ll settle with him.” 

“ Money ! why, I don’t keep the key to the cash-box ; 
you do.” 

“ Not at all ; you do. You undertook the general 
stewardship,” said Rodolphe. 

“ But I assure you that I haven’t any money ! ” ex- 
claimed Marcel. 

“ Can it be that it’s all gone so soon? It’s impossible ! 
A man can’t spend five hundred francs in a week, espe- 
cially when he lives, as we have done, with the strictest 
economy and confines himself to what is absolutely nec- 
essary.” — To what is absolutely superfluous, he should 
have said. — “ We must audit the accounts ; we shall find 
the error.” 

“Yes,” said Marcel, “but we shan’t find the money. 
Never mind, let us consult the book of expenses.” 


X 24 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Here is a specimen of the account, which had been 
opened under the auspices of Saint Economy : 

“‘ March 19. — Received, 500 fr. Spent: A Turkish 
pipe, 25 fr. ; dinner, 15 fr. ; divers expenses, 40 fr.’ ” 

“ What are those expenses?” Rodolphe asked Mar- 
cel, who was reading. 

“You know very well,” he replied; “it was the night 
when we didn’t come home till morning. At all events, 
we economized in fuel and candles.” 

“What next? Goon.” 

“‘ March 20th. Breakfast, 1 fr. 50 c. ; tobacco, 
20 c. ; dinner, 2 fr. ; an eye-glass, 2 fr. 50.’ Oho ! ” 
said Marcel, “ that eye-glass was for you ! What the 
devil did you need of an eye-glass? your sight’s per- 
fectly good.” 

“You know that I had to write an account of the 
Salon for L’ Echarpe d’ Iris', it isn’t possible to write a 
criticism of paintings without an eye-glass ; it was a le- 
gitimate expense. What next?” 

“ * A bamboo cane ’ ” 

“ Ah ! that was for you,” said Rodolphe ; “ you didn’t 
need a cane.” 

“ That’s all we spent on the 20th,” said Marcel with- 
out further comment. “On the 21st we breakfasted 
out, and dined out, and supped out too.” 

“We couldn’t have spent much on that day?” 

“No, very little. Barely thirty francs.” 

“But what for?” 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


125 

“ I don’t know,” said Marcel; “but it’s put down 
under the heading Divers expenses." 

“A vague and treacherous heading ! ” said Rodolphe. 

“The 2 2d. That was the day we hired Baptiste : we 
paid him 5 fr. on account of his salary ; ‘ to the barrel- 
organ ( orgue de Barb avis'), 50 c. ; for the ransom of 
four small Chinese children condemned to be thrown 
into the Yellow River by parents of incredible barbari-ty 
— barbarie — 2 fr. 40 c.’ ” 

“ Ah, <?a ! ” said Rodolphe, “ just explain the contra- 
diction that I notice in that entry. If you give money 
to orgues de barbarie , why do you insult barbarous par- 
ents? What necessity, moreover, for ransoming little 
Chinese. If the money had only been spent for 
eau-de-vie ! ” 

“I was born generous,” retorted Marcel, “go on; 
thus far we have departed very little from economical 
principles.” 

“On the 23d there was nothing special. On the 
24th, ditto. There are two good days. ‘On the 25th, 
3 francs to Baptiste on account of his salary.’ ” 

« It seems to me that we give him money very often,” 
said Marcel, by way of reflection. 

“We shall owe him less,” said Rodolphe. “Go 
on.” 

“‘The 26th of March, divers expenses, useful from 
the standpoint of art, 36 fr. 40 c.’ ” 

“ What the devil can we have bought that’s so use- 


26 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


ful?” said Rodolphe. “ I don’t remember. 36 fr. 
40 c. — what can that have been? ” 

“ You say you don’t remember? It was the day we 
went up in the towers of Notre-Dame to get a bird’s-eye 
view of Paris.” 

“It costs eight sous to go up in the towers,” said 
Rodolphe. 

“ Yes, but when we came down we dined at Saint- 
Germain.” 

“That explanation sins on the side of clearness.” 

“On the 27th there was nothing special.” 

“ Good ! that’s economy.” 

“ 4 The 28th, Baptiste, on account of wages, 6 fr.’ ” 

“Ah ! now I am sure we don’t owe him anything. It 
may well be that he owes us. We must see.” 

“ 29th. We didn’t put down anything on the 29th; 
the expense column is occupied by the beginning of an 
article on morals.” 

“ 30th. Ah ! we had company to dinner : expenses 
were heavy: 30 fr. 55 c. On the 31st, that’s to-day, 
we haven’t spent anything as yet. You see,” said Mar- 
cel, rising, “ the accounts have been kept very carefully. 
The total isn’t 500 francs.” 

“ Then there must be some money left in the treasury.” 

“ We can find out,” said Marcel, opening a drawer. 
“No, there’s nothing here. There’s only a cobweb.” 

“ Cobwebs in the morning, disappointment,” said 
Rodolphe. 


THE SANDS OF PACTOLUS 


127 


“ Where the devil can so much money have gone?” 
rejoined Marcel, thunderstruck at the sight of the empty 
drawer. 

" Parbleu ! it’s very simple,” said Rodolphe, “ we’ve 
given it all to Baptiste.” 

“ Wait a moment ! ” cried Marcel, thrusting his hand 
into the drawer, where he spied a paper. “A receipt 
for the last quarter’s rent ! ” he exclaimed. 

“The devil!” said Rodolphe, “ how did that come 
there ? ” 

“And signed, too,” added Marcel; “did you pay the 
landlord, then?” 

“ I ! — nonsense ! ” said Rodolphe. 

“ But what does it mean? ” 

“ I assure you ” 

“ Pray, what is this mystery?” they sang in unison to 
the air of the final chorus of La Dame Blanche. 

Baptiste, who loved music, at once came running in. 

Marcel showed him the receipt. 

“ Oh ! yes,” said Baptiste carelessly, “ I had forgotten 
to tell you that the landlord came this morning while 
you were out. I paid him, to save him the trouble of 
coming again.” 

“Where did you find the money?” 

“Why, monsieur,” said Baptiste, “I took it from the 
drawer, which was open; indeed I thought that you 
gentlemen had left it open for that purpose, and I said 
to myself : * My masters forgot to tell me when they 


128 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


went out : “ Baptiste, the landlord will come for his rent 
to-day, you must pay him ; ” ’ and I did as if they had 
ordered me to do so, without waiting for the order.” 

“Baptiste,” said Marcel, white with wrath, “you went 
beyond our orders ; from and after to-day you cease to 
be a part of our household. Give up your livery, 
Baptiste.” 

Baptiste removed the glazed linen cap which con- 
stituted his livery and handed it to Marcel. 

“ Very good,” said the latter : “ now you may go.” 

“And what about my wages? ” 

“What do you say, knave? You have received more 
than we owe you. I have given you fourteen francs in 
less than a fortnight. What do you do with so much 
money? Are you keeping a dancer ? ” 

“ A rope dancer,” suggested Rodolphe. 

“ So I am to be abandoned,” said the unfortunate serv- 
ant, “without a roof to shelter my head ! ” 

“ Take back your livery,” said Marcel, moved in spite 
of himself. 

And he gave Baptiste his cap once more. 

“ That wretch is the one who has squandered our for- 
tune, nevertheless,” said Rodolphe, as poor Baptiste left 
the room. “ Where shall we dine to-day? ” 

“We shall know to-morrow,” replied Marcel. 


VIII 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 

One Saturday evening, in the days before he set up 
housekeeping with Mademoiselle Mimi, who will soon 
appear upon the stage, Rodolphe made the acquaint- 
ance at his table d’hote, of a dealer in toilet articles, 
known as Mademoiselle Laure. Having learned that 
Rodolphe was editor-in-chief of L’ Echarpe d * Iris and 
Le Castor , journals of fashion, the modiste, in the 
hope of obtaining puffs for her goods, ogled him in 
a most significant way. Rodolphe answered her chal- 
lenge by an explosion of madrigals calculated to arouse 
the jealousy of Benserade, Voiture and all the Rug- 
gieris of the amorous school ; and at the end of dinner 
Mademoiselle Laure, having learned that Rodolphe 
was a poet, gave him clearly to understand that she was 
not averse to accepting him for her Petrarch. With- 
out needless circumlocution she made an appointment 
with him for the following day. 

“ Parb leu ! ” said Rodolphe to himself as he walked 
home with Mademoiselle Laure, “ this is most cer- 
9 ( 12 9 ) 


130 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


tainly a very agreeable person. She seems to me to 
be well up in grammar and to have an ample ward- 
robe. I am quite disposed to make her happy.” 

Arrived at the door of her abode, Mademoiselle 
Laure dropped Rodolphe’s arm and thanked him for 
the trouble he had taken in accompanying her to such 
a distant quarter of the city. 

“ O madame,” replied Rodolphe, bowing to the 
ground, “ I could wish that you lived at Moscow or the 
Sunda Isles, so that I might longer enjoy the pleasure 
of being your cavalier.” 

“ That’s a little far,” said Laure affectedly. 

“We could have gone by the boulevards, madame,” 
said Rodolphe. “ Allow me to kiss your hand by means 
of your cheek,” he continued, kissing Laure on the lips, 
before she had time to resist. 

“ O monsieur ! ” she exclaimed, “you go too fast.” 

“In order to arrive sooner,” retorted Rodolphe. 
“ In love, the first stages ought to be taken at a gallop.” 

“What a saucy fellow ! ” thought the modiste as she 
entered the house. 

“ What a pretty creature ! ” said Rodolphe as he 
walked away. 

Returning home, he hurried to bed and dreamed the 
sweetest dreams. He fancied himself at balls, theatres, 
and promenades, with Mademoiselle Laure on his arm 
arrayed in robes more gorgeous than those for which 
the coquettes in fairy tales sigh. 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 


I3i 

The next day Rodolphe rose, as usual, at eleven 
o’clock. His first thought was for Mademoiselle 
Laure. 

“ She’s a very well-bred woman,” he said. “I’m 
sure she was brought up at Saint-Denis. So at last 
I’m to have the delight of having a mistress who knows 
something. I certainly will make sacrifices for her, 
I’ll draw my money at L’ Echarpe d’ Iris, I’ll buy gloves 
and take Laure to dine at a restaurant where they 
furnish napkins. My coat isn’t very handsome,” he 
said as he dressed ; “ but never mind ! black always 
looks well ! ” 

He went out and started for the office of D Echarpe 
d’ Iiis. 

As he crossed the street he passed an omnibus with 
a placard on its side, which read : 

TO-DAY, SUNDAY, THE FOUNTAINS WILL PLAY AT 
VERSAILLES 

A thunderbolt falling at Rodolphe’s feet would not 
have caused him a greater shock than the sight of that 
placard. 

“ To-day, Sunday! I had forgotten it,” he cried; 
“ I shall not be able to get any money. To-day, Sun- 
day ! ! ! Why, all the crowns there are in Paris are 
on the way to Versailles.” 

However, spurred on by one of those fabulous hopes 
to which man always clings, Rodolphe hurried to the 


i3 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


office of his newspaper, thinking that some lucky 
chance might have led the cashier thither. 

Monsieur Boniface had in fact been there for a 
moment, but had left again immediately. 

“To go to Versailles,” the office-boy told Rodolphe. 

“ Well, it’s no use,” said Rodolphe. “ But let us 
see,” he reflected, “my appointment isn’t until even- 
ing. It is noon now and I have five hours in which 
to pick up five francs, — twenty sous an hour, like the 
horses in the Bois de Boulogne. Off we go ! ” 

As he happened to be in the quarter where a news- 
paper man whom he called the influential critic re- 
sided, Rodolphe thought he would try his luck with 
him. 

“ I am sure of finding him,” he said as he climbed 
the stairs ; “ it’s his day for the feuilleton and there’s no 
danger of his going out. I will borrow five francs from 
him.” 

“Ah! it is you,” said the man of letters, when he 
saw Rodolphe, “ you come at a good time ; I have a 
little favor to ask of you.” 

“ How lucky ! ” thought the editor of L’ Echarpe 
d’lris. 

“Were you at the Od£on last night ? ” 

“ I am always at the Od£on.” 

“ Then you have seen the new play ? ” 

“ Who would have seen it, if not I ? I am the audi- 


ence of the Od6on.” 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 


*33 


“True,” said the critic, “you are one of the caryat- 
ids of that theatre. Indeed, there is a rumor that 
you furnish the subsidy. Well, this is what I want to 
ask you : to give me a sketch of the new play.” 

“ That’s easily done ; I have a creditor’s mem- 
ory.” 

“By whom is the play?” the critic asked Rodolphe, 
while the latter was writing. 

“ It’s by a man.” 

“It can’t be very strong.” 

“ Not so strong as a Turk, most assuredly.” 

“ In that case it isn’t robust. The Turks, you see, 
have usurped the reputation for strength ; they couldn’t 
be Savoyards.” 

“What would prevent them?” 

“ Because all Savoyards are Auvergnats and the 
Auvergnats are porters. And then there aren’t any 
Turks now except at the masked balls at the barriers and 
on the Champs-Elys£es, where they sell dates. The 
Turk is a prejudice. I have a friend who knows the 
Orient, and he assures me that the whole nation came 
into the world on Rue Coquenard.” 

“What you say sounds very pretty,” said Rodolphe. 

“ Do you think so? ” said the critic. “ I am going to 
put it in my feuilleton .” 

“ Here’s my analysis of the play ; it’s done sum- 
marily,” said Rodolphe. 

“ Yes, but it’s short.” 


134 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ By putting in hyphens, and developing your critical 
opinion, it will fill up the space.” 

“ I haven’t the time, my dear fellow, and then, too, my 
critical opinion doesn’t take up enough room.” 

“ You can put in an adjective every three words.” 

“ Couldn’t you work into your analysis a short, or 
rather a long, estimate of the play?” queried the 
critic. 

“Bless me” said Rodolphe, “ I have my own ideas 
about the tragedy, but I give you warning that I have 
printed them three times in Le Castor and L’ Echarpe 
(Tlrisr 

“ Never mind, how many lines do your ideas make? ” 

“ Forty.” 

“ The deuce ! you have extensive ideas, I must say ! 
Well, lend me your forty lines.” 

“ Good,” thought Rodolphe, “if I give him twenty 
francs’ worth of copy, he can’t refuse to lend me five 
francs, — I ought to tell you,” he said to the critic, “ that 
my ideas are not altogether new. They’re a little 
threadbare at the elbow. Before printing them I roared 
them in all the caf£s in Paris ; there isn’t a waiter who 
doesn’t know them by heart.” 

“ Oh ! what do I care for that ! You evidently don’t 
know me ! Is there anything new in the world — except 
virtue? ” 

“There you are,” said Rodolphe, when he had 
finished. 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 


J 35 


“ Thunder and tempest ! I still lack two columns. — 
How am I to fill that chasm?” cried the critic. “ While 
you are about it, pray supply me with a few para- 
doxes ! ” 

“ I haven’t any about me,” said Rodolphe ; “ but I can 
lend you a few ; only they’re not mine ; I bought them 
for- fifty centimes from a friend of mine, who was in 
want. They’ve been used very little as yet.” 

“ Good ! ” said the critic. 

“ By Jove ! ” said Rodolphe to himself as he began 
to write again, “ I shall certainly ask him for ten francs ; 
in these days paradoxes come as high as partridges.” — 
And he wrote some thirty lines or more, full of nonsense 
about pianos, gold fish, the school of common-sense and 
Rhine wine, which was called a toilet wine. 

“That’s very nice,” said the critic; “just be kind 
enough to add that the galleys is the place where more 
honest men are found than anywhere else in the 
world.” 

“ What’s that for? ” 

“To make two lines more. Good, that’s done,” said 
the influential critic, calling his servant to take the 
feuilleton to the printer. 

“Now,” said Rodolphe to himself, “let us strike 
home ! ” And he gravely formulated his request. 

“Ah ! my dear fellow,” said the critic, “I haven’t a 
sou here. Lolette is ruining me in pomade, and just 
now she stripped me of my last centime to go to Ver- 


136 bohemian life 

sailles and see the Nereids and brass monsters vomit 
liquid streams.” 

“To Versailles ! Bless my soul ! is it an epidemic?” 
said Rodolphe. 

“ But why do you need money? ” 

“ There’s the poem,” replied Rodolphe. “ I have an 
appointment at five o’clock this evening with a woman 
of fashion, a very distinguished person, who never goes 
out except in an omnibus. I would like to unite my 
destiny to hers for a few days, and it seems to me that 
it will be decent to give her a taste of the sweets of life. 
Dinner, ball, prpmenades, etc. I absolutely must have 
five francs ; if I do not get them, French literature is 
dishonored in my person.” 

“Why don’t you borrow the money from the lady her- 
self ? ” inquired the critic. 

“That’s hardly possible the first time. Nobody but 
you can get me out of the scrape.” 

“ By all the mummies in Egypt, I give you my solemn 
word of honor that I haven’t the wherewithal to buy 
a sou pipe. I have some old books though, that you 
might sell.” 

“ What, Sunday ! Impossible. Mere Mansut, Lebigre, 
and all the shops on the quays and Rue Saint- Jacques 
are closed. What are your books? Volumes of poetry 
with a portrait of the author in spectacles? Why, no- 
body’ll buy those things.” 

“Unless they’re tabooed by the Assize Court,” said 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 137 

the critic. “ Stay, here are some ballads and some con- 
cert tickets. By going about it shrewdly, you might, 
perhaps, turn them into cash.” 

“ I should prefer something else, a pair of trousers, 
for instance.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said the critic; “ take this Bossuetand 
the plaster cast of Monsieur Odilon Barrot; on my 
honor, it’s the widow’s mite.” 

“ I see that you mean well,” said Rodolphe. “ I will 
take the valuables with me, but if I get thirty sous for 
them, I shall consider that I have performed the thirteenth 
labor of Hercules.” 

After travelling about four leagues, Rodolphe, with 
the aid of an eloquence which he could command on 
great occasions, succeeded in inducing his laundress to 
lend him two francs, upon depositing with her the vol- 
umes of poetry and ballads and the bust of Monsieur 
Barrot. 

“So much for the sauce,” he said as he crossed the 
bridge ; “ now I must find the ragout. Suppose I go to 
see my uncle ! ” 

Half an hour later he was with his Uncle Monetti, 
who read in his nephew’s face the nature of his errand. 
So he at once stood on his guard, and forestalled any 
possible request by a series of lamentations like these : 

“Times are hard, bread is high, debtors don’t pay, 
rent must be paid, business in a decline,” etc., etc. — all 
the hypocritical formulas of the shopkeeper. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


138 

“ Would you believe,” said the uncle, “ that I had to 
borrow money of my clerk to pay a note? ” 

“ You ought to have sent to me,” said Rodolphe. “ I 
would have lent you some money. I received two 
hundred francs three days ago.” 

“ Thanks, my boy,” said the uncle, “but you need all 
you can get. Ah ! while you are here, you write such a 
fine hand, you might as well copy some invoices I want 
to send out.” 

“These five francs will cost me dear,” said Rodolphe, 
setting about the task, which he abridged as much as 
possible. 

“ My dear uncle,” he said, “ I know how fond you are 
of music, and I have brought you some tickets for a con- 
cert.” 

“ You are very good, my boy. Will you dine with me?” 

“ Thanks, uncle, I am invited to dine in Faubourg 
Saint-Germain ; indeed, I am in rather a fix, for I haven’t 
time to go home and get some money to buy a pair of 
gloves.” 

“ Haven’t you any gloves ? Shall I lend you mine ? ” 

“ Thanks, we don’t wear the same size ; but you would 
oblige me by lending me ” 

“ Twenty-nine sous to buy a pair ? Certainly, my boy ; 
here’s the money. When you go into society you should 
be well dressed. Better to cause envy than pity, your 
aunt used to say. I see that you’re getting on, so much 
the better. I would have given you more,” he added, 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 


139 


“ but it’s all I have in my drawer ; I should have to go 
upstairs, and I can’t leave the shop alone ; customers 
are coming in every minute.” 

“ I thought you said business was bad? ” 

Uncle Monetti pretended not to hear, and said to his 
nephew as he pocketed the twenty-nine sous : 

“ Don’t be in a hurry to pay them back.” 

“ What a curmudgeon ! ” said Rodolphe, as he made 
his escape. “ Ah ! I still lack thirty-one sous. Where 
am I to get them? Now I think of it, I’ll go to the 
Providence crossroads.” 

Rodolphe gave that name to the most central part of 
Paris, the Palais Royal. A spot where it is almost im- 
possible to remain ten minutes without meeting ten per- 
sons you know, creditors above all. So Rodolphe went 
and stood sentry on the stoop of the Palais-Royal. Prov- 
idence was a long time coming on that occasion. But 
at last Rodolphe caught sight of him. He wore a white 
hat, a green coat and a gold-headed cane — a very well- 
dressed Providence. 

He was a wealthy and amiable individual, although a 
phalansterian. 

“I am delighted to see you,” he said to Rodolphe; 
“ come and walk with me a little, and we will talk.” 

“ Well, well ! now I have to undergo the torture of the 
phalanstery,” muttered Rodolphe, allowing himself to be 
led away by the white hat, who did, in truth, phalan- 
sterize him without mercy. 


140 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


As they drew near the Pont des Arts, Rodolphe said 
to his companion : 

“ I must leave you, as I haven’t anything to pay the 
toll with.” 

“ Nonsense,” said the other, taking Rodolphe’ s arm 
and tossing two sous to the veteran. 

“The moment has come,” thought the editor of 
L’ Echarpe d ’Iris, as they crossed the bridge ; and when 
they were on the other side, in front of the clock on the 
Institute, Rodolphe stopped short, pointed to the dial 
with a desperate gesture and cried : 

ft Sacrebleu / quarter to five ! I am lost ! ” 

“What’s the matter?” said the other in amazement. 

“ The matter is,” said Rodolphe, “ that, thanks to you 
who have brought me here against my will, I have missed 
an appointment.” 

“ Important? ” 

“ I should say so ; I was to receive some money at five 
o’clock — at Batignolles ! I shall never get there. Sacre- 
bleu ! What am I to do?” 

“ Parbleu!” said the phalansterian, “it’s a very 
simple matter ; come home with me and I will lend you 
some money.” 

“ Impossible ! you live at Montrouge and I have some 
business to attend to at six — Chauss£e d’Antin. — Sacre- 
bleu / ' ' 

“ I have a few sous about me,” said Providence tim- 
idly — “but very little.” 


WHAT A FIVE-FRANC PIECE COSTS 


141 

“ If I had enough to hire a cab, perhaps I might get 
to Batignolles in time.” 

“There’s the bottom of my purse, my dear fellow, 
thirty-one sous.” 

“ Give them to me, quick, quick and let me go ! ” 
said Rodolphe, as he heard the clock strike five, and he 
hurried away to keep his appointment. 

“ It has been like pulling teeth,” he said, counting his 
money. “ A hundred sous, no more, no less. At last I 
am fitted out, and Laure will see that she has to do with 
a man who knows how to live. I can’t take home a 
centime to-night. I must rehabilitate literature and 
prove that it lacks nothing but money to be rich.” 

Rodolphe found Mademoiselle Laure at the rendez- 
vous. 

“ Good ! ” he said to himself. “ She’s a female Br£guet. 

He passed the evening with her and gallantly melted 
his five francs in the crucible of prodigality. Mademoi- 
selle Laure was delighted with his manners and did not 
choose to notice that Rodolphe was not escorting her 
home until just as he ushered her into his own apart- 
ment. 

“ I am doing wrong,” she said. “ Do not make me re- 
pent it by the ingratitude which is the heritage of your 
sex.” 

“ Madame,” said Rodolphe, “ I am noted for my con- 
stancy. It goes so far that my friends are amazed at it 
and have dubbed me the General Bertrand of love.” 








IX 

THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 

In those days Rodolphe was much enamored of his 
cousin Angele, who could not endure him, and the opti- 
cian Chevalier’s thermometer marked twelve degrees 
below zero. 

Mademoiselle Angele was the daughter of Monsieur 
Monetti, the stove-maker and chimney-builder of whom 
we have already had occasion to speak. Mademoiselle 
Angele was eighteen years old and had recently arrived 
from Bourgogne, where she had passed five years with a 
relative who was expected to leave her her property after 
her death. This relative was an old woman who had 
never been young or beautiful, but had always been 
spiteful, although she was very pious, or perhaps because 
she was so. Angele, who, when she left Paris, was a 
charming child and whose girlhood bore the germ of a 
charming youth, returned at the end of five years, 
changed into a beautiful, but cold, hard, indifferent 
young woman. The retired life of the provinces, the 
constant subjection to the requirements of unreasonable 

(143) 


144 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


piety, and the narrow education she had received, had 
filled her mind with vulgar and absurd prejudices, nar- 
rowed her imagination and made of her heart an organ 
that confined itself to the performance of its functions 
as balance-wheel. Angele had holy water instead of 
blood in her veins, so to speak. 

On her return she greeted her cousin with frigid re- 
serve, and he wasted his time whenever he tried to set 
in motion the tender chord of memory — memories of the 
time when they had sketched out together the amourette 
a la Paul and Virginie, which is traditional between 
cousins. Nevertheless, Rodolphewas very much in love 
with his cousin Angele, who could not endure him ; and 
having learned one day that she was soon to attend the 
wedding ball of one of her friends, he had screwed his 
courage to the point of promising her a bunch of violets 
for that occasion. And Angele, having first asked her 
father’s permission, accepted her cousin’s courteous offer, 
but insisted upon having white violets. 

Rodolphe, overjoyed by his cousin’s condescension, re- 
turned prancing and singing to his Mont Saint- Bernard. 
That was the name he gave to his domicile. Why he 
called it so, we shall soon learn. As he passed through 
the Palais- Royal, he saw some white violets in the shop- 
window of Madame Provost, the celebrated florist, and 
as a matter of curiosity he entered and asked the price. 
A presentable bunch cost not less than ten francs, and 
there were some that cost more. 


THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 


*45 


“The devil!” said Rodolphe, “ten francs, and only 
a beggarly week before me to pick up that million. It 
will be hard work ; but my cousin shall have her bouquet 
all the same. I have an idea.” 

This episode took place in the days of Rodolphe’s 
literary genesis. He had no other source of income at 
that time than an allowance of fifteen francs a month 
paid him by one of his friends, a great poet, who, after 
a long residence in Paris, had become master of a school 
in the provinces through the assistance of patrons. Ro- 
dolphe, who had extravagance for a godmother, always 
spent his allowance in four days ; and as he was unwill- 
ing to abandon the sacred and unproductive profession 
of elegiac poet, he lived the rest of the time on that 
unreliable manna that falls slowly from the baskets of 
Providence. Lent had no terrors for him : he passed 
gayly through the season of fasting, thanks to the sobri- 
ety of a stoic, and to the treasures of imagination which 
he expended every day pending the arrival of the first 
of the month, the joyous Easter that terminated his fast. 
At that time Rodolphe lived on Rue Contrescarpe- 
Saint-Marcel, in a large building formerly called the 
Hotel de l’ Eminence Grise, because Pere Joseph, Riche- 
lieu’s bosom friend, was said to have lived there. Ro- 
dolphe lodged at the very top of that house, which was 
one of the highest in Paris. His room, which was like a 
summer-house in shape, was a delightful abode in sum- 
mer ; but from October to April it was Kamschatka in 
io 


146 bohemian life 

miniature. The four cardinal winds which blew in 
through the four windows, executed wild fandangoes 
there throughout the stormy season. As if in irony, there 
was also a fireplace in the room, its immense opening 
having the appearance of a state entrance reserved for 
Boreas and all his suite. At the first suggestion of 
cold, Rodolphe had recourse to a system of heating of 
his own invention ; he cut up piece after piece of such 
furniture as he possessed, and after a week the supply 
was considerably abridged : he had nothing left but the 
bed and two chairs : to be sure, those articles were of 
iron and therefore naturally safe against fire. Rodolphe 
called this method of warming himself, moving out by 
way of the chimney. 

It was the month of January, then, and the thermom- 
eter, which marked twelve degrees below zero on Quai des 
Lunettes, would have marked two or three degrees lower 
if it had been transferred to the summer-house which 
Rodolphe had named Mont Saint- Bernard, Spitzbergen , 
Siberia. 

On the evening when he promised his cousin the 
white violets, Rodolphe flew into a violent rage when he 
entered his apartment : the four cardinal winds, frisking 
about in every corner, had broken still another pane of 
glass. It was the third mishap of that description within 
a fortnight. So Rodolphe exhausted himself in fierce 
imprecations against Eolus and his whole family of Break- 
Alls. Having stuffed the latest breach with a portrait of 


THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 


147 


one of his friends, Rodolphe lay down fully dressed 
between the two covered boards which he called his 
mattresses, and dreamed of white violets all night 
long. 

Five days passed and Rodolphe had as yet found 
nothing to assist him in realizing his dream ; on the 
second day thereafter he was to present his cousin with 
the bouquet. Meanwhile the thermometer had fallen 
still lower, and the unhappy poet was in despair at the 
thought that violets might have gone up in price. At 
last Providence took pity on him, and this is how it 
came to his assistance. 

One morning Rodolphe determined to go and ask his 
friend Marcel to invite him to breakfast, and he found 
the artist conversing with a woman in mourning. She 
was a widow who lived in the quarter ; she had recently 
lost her husband, and had come to ask how much Mar- 
cel would charge to paint on the monument she had 
erected to the deceased, a man’s hand ’ with these words 
below : 

I AWAIT THEE, MY DEAREST WIFE 

In order to make a better bargain for the work, she 
reminded the artist that when God should send her to 
join her spouse he would have to paint a second hand, 
her own, embellished with a bracelet, and a new legend 
to be thus conceived : 


AT LAST WE ARE UNITED 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ I will put that clause in my will,” said the widow, 
“and provide that the work shall be given to you 
to do.” 

“ On that understanding, madame,” the artist replied, 
“ I accept the price you offer — but I do so with the 
hope of the hand-clasp . Don’t forget me in your 
will.” 

“ I should like to have you give it to me as soon as 
possible,” said the widow; “but don’t hurry and don’t 
forget the scar on the thumb. I want a living hand.” 

“ It shall be a speaking one, madame, never fear,” 
said Marcel, as he bowed the widow out. 

But she was no sooner outside the door than she 
returned. 

“ I have something else I want to ask you, monsieur 
painter,” she said. “ I should like to have on my hus- 
band’s tomb a piece of verse describing his good quali- 
ties and telling the last words he spoke on his death- 
bed. What do you think of that? ” 

“ That would be very fine, very fine ! it’s what is 
called an epitaph.” 

“ You don’t know anyone, do you, who’d do it for me 
cheap? There’s my neighbor, Monsieur Guerin, the 
public scrivener, but he charges my eyes out of my 
head.” 

At that, Rodolphe glanced at Marcel, who understood 
at once. 

“Madame,” said the artist, pointing to Rodolphe, “a 


THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 


149 


lucky chance brings here at this moment the very man 
who can be of use to you in this painful emergency. 
Monsieur is a distinguished poet and you could find no 
better.” 

“ I am very particular about it’s being sad,” said the 
widow, “and to have the spelling good.” 

“ Madame,” said Marcel, “ my friend has orthography 
at his fingers’ ends ; at college he took all the prizes.” 

“My nephew’s had a prize, too,” said the widow; 
“but he’s only seven years old.” 

“ He’s a very precocious child,” said Marcel. 

“ But,” the widow persisted, “ can monsieur write really 
sad poetry? ” 

“ Better than anyone, madame, for he has had much 
disappointment in his life. My friend excels in sad 
poetry, the newspapers are always finding fault with him 
on that account.” 

“What!” cried the widow, “do the newspapers 
speak of him? then he knows as much as Monsieur 
Guerin, the public scrivener.” 

“ Oh ! much more ! Employ him, madame, you 
won’t be sorry.” 

After explaining to the poet the gist of the inscrip- 
tion in verse which she wished to have placed on her 
husband’s tomb, the widow agreed to give Rodolphe ten 
francs if she was satisfied with it ; but she wanted the 
verses very soon. The poet promised to send them to 
her by his friend the very next day. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


I 5° 

“ O kindly fairy, Artemisia,” cried Rodolphe, when 
the widow had gone, “ I promise that you shall be satis- 
fied ; I will give you good measure of funereal lyrism and 
the orthography shall be better dressed than a duchess. 
O dear old lady, may Heaven, to reward you, prolong your 
life to a hundred and seven years, like good eau-de-vie ! ” 

“ I object to that ! ” cried Marcel. 

“ True,” said Rodolphe, “ I forgot that you had another 
hand to paint after her death, and that such longevity 
would cause you to lose money.” And he raised his 
hands, saying : “ O Heaven, do not grant my prayer ! 

— My coming here was a great piece of luck,” he added. 

“By the way, what did you want of me?” inquired 
Marcel. 

“ I am still thinking about it ; indeed, being compelled 
to pass the night writing this poetry, I cannot do with- 
out what I came to ask you for : first, dinner ; secondly, 
tobacco and a candle ; thirdly, your polar bear costume.” 

“ Are you going to the fancy ball ? The first one is 
to-night, I believe.” 

“ No, but as you see me now, I am frozen as stiff as 
the Grande Arm£e during the retreat from Russia. My 
jacket of green lasting and my Scotch merino trousers 
are certainly very pretty ; but they are too spring-like 
and fit only for life at the equator ; when one lives at 
the North Pole, as I do, a white bear’s costume is most 
suitable, I may even say that it is absolutely essential.” 

“Take the Bruin,” said Marcel; “there’s an idea; 


THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 


I 5 I 

it’s as hot as a chafing-dish, and you’ll be as comfortable 
in it as a loaf of bread in an oven.” 

Rodolphe was already inside of the furry pelt. 

“ Now,” said he, “ the thermometer will be sadly an- 
noyed.” 

“Do you mean to say you’re going out like that?” 
Marcel asked his friend, after they had finished a shad- 
owy sort of dinner served on plate marked five centimes 
apiece. 

" Parbleu / ” said Rodolphe. “ I snap my fingers at 
public opinion ; besides, it’s the beginning of the carni- 
val.” And he walked across Paris with the gravity of 
the quadruped whose skin he occupied. As he passed 
in front of Chevalier’s thermometer, Rodolphe made a 
wry face at it. 

Having returned home, not without giving his con- 
cierge a great fright, the poet lighted his candle and took 
great pains to surround it with transparent paper to fore- 
stall the malicious attacks of the north wind ; then he 
set about his task. But he soon discovered that, although 
his body was fairly well protected against the cold, his 
hands were not ; and he had not written two lines of his 
epitaph when his numbed fingers began to ache furiously, 
and dropped the pen. 

“ The bravest man cannot contend with the elements,” 
said Rodolphe, falling back crushed in his chair. “ Caesar 
crossed the Rubicon, but he could not have crossed the 
Basina.” 


x 5 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Suddenly he emitted a joyful shout from the depths of 
his bear’s chest, and rose so suddenly that he overturned 
a portion of his ink on the white fur ; he had an idea 
borrowed from Chatterton. 

He drew from under his bed a considerable quantity 
of papers, among which were a dozen or more manu- 
scripts of his famous drama of the Vengeur. That drama, 
at which he had worked two years, had been made and 
unmade and made over so many times that all the copies 
together weighed seven kilogrammes. Rodolphe laid 
aside the most recent manuscript and carried all the 
others to the fireplace. 

“ I was very sure that I should find a place for them,” 
he cried — “ with patience ! They certainly make a 
pretty little bundle of prose fuel. Ah ! if I had foreseen 
what was to happen, I would have written a prologue, 
and I should have just so much more combustible mate- 
rial to-day. But then, one can’t foresee everything.” 
And he lighted a few sheets of his manuscript on the 
hearth and warmed his hands at the flame. Five min- 
utes later the first act of the Vengeur was played and 
Rodolphe had written three lines of his epitaph. 

No words can describe the amazement of the four car- 
dinal winds when they discovered the fire on the hearth. 

“ It’s an optical illusion,” whistled the north wind, as 
he amused himself ruffling Rodolphe’s skin. 

“ Suppose we go and blow down the flue,” suggested 
another wind ; “ that would make the fire smoke.” 


(ttfjaptet tX 


And he lighted a few sheets of his manuscript on 
the hearth and warmed his hands at the flame. Five 
minutes later the first act of the Vengeur was played, 
and Rodolphe had written three lines of his epitaph. 




wo zh\ \o kk 

OVSsA .0$W£>\ 0^ \0 i50K»& VftXtt'S'OOS ^W£> $\Y^OO& OsVs 

J^Yfilq zoos -ms^nsV* oM *\o ^oYo\ io\wwm 

ow\\ woWVtos ^oA o&^oW^. 'owo 



I 












THE VIOLETS FROM THE POLE 153 

But as they were about to begin to tease poor Ro- 
dolphe, the south wind spied Monsieur Arago at a win- 
dow of the Observatory, shaking his finger threateningly 
at the antics of the breezes. 

Thereupon the south wind cried to his brethren : 
“ Let’s be off at once ; the almanac says calm weather 
to-night ; we shall find ourselves at loggerheads with the 
Observatory, and if we’re not in bed at midnight, Mon- 
sieur Arago will give us into custody.” 

Meanwhile the second act of the Vengeur was burning 
with great success. And Rodolphe had written ten lines. 
But he was able to write only two during the progress of 
the third act. 

“ I always thought that act was too short,” muttered 
Rodolphe, “ but you don’t discover defects until the per- 
formance. Luckily this next one will last longer ; there 
are twenty-three scenes, among them the throne scene, 
which was to bring me renown.” 

The last speech of the throne scene went up in flakes of 
charred paper when Rodolphe still had six lines to write. 

“ Now for the fourth act,” he said, with a fiery gleam 
in his eye. “It will last five minutes ; it’s all soliloquy.” 
It burned away down to the catastrophe, which simply 
flared up and went out. At that moment Rodolphe was 
setting, in a magnificent outburst of poesy, the last words 
of the defunct in whose honor he was working. 

“Those will do for a second performance,” he said, 
pushing the other manuscripts under his bed again. 


J 54 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


The next evening at eight o’clock, Mademoiselle An- 
gele entered the ball-room with a superb bunch of white 
violets, in the centre of which were two full-blown roses, 
also white. Throughout the night the bouquet called 
forth compliments from the ladies, and flattering speeches 
from the men. So that Angele was more or less grate- 
ful to her cousin, to whom she owed all these petty grat- 
ifications of her self-esteem, and she might, perhaps, have 
thought more of him had it not been for the polite per- 
secution of a kinsman of the bride, who had danced sev- 
eral times with her. He was a blond young man, the 
possessor of a pair of those magnificent curling mous- 
tachios, which are the hooks that catch untutored 
hearts. The young man had already asked Angele to 
give him the two white roses which were all that remained 
of her bouquet, from which everybody had plucked a 
violet. But Angele refused, only to leave the two flowers, 
at the close of the ball, forgotten on a bench, where the 
blond young man picked them up. 

At that moment it was fourteen degrees below zero in 
Rodolphe’s pagoda, and he stood at his window, looking 
off toward the Barriere du Maine at the lights in the 
ball-room, where his cousin Angele, who could not endure 
him, was dancing. 


X 


CAPE TEMPEST 

There are terrible days in the months that begin each 
new quarter — usually the ist and the 15 th. Rodolphe, 
who could not contemplate the approach of either of 
those dates without alarm, called them Cape Tempest. 
On those days it is not Aurora who opens the gates of 
the Orient, but creditors, landlords, bailiffs and other 
gens de sac — oches .5 Those days begin with a shower of 
bills, statements and notes, and end with a hail-storm of 
notices of protests ; Dies irce / 

Now, on the morning of April 15 th, Rodolphe was 
sleeping peacefully, and dreaming that one of his uncles 
had bequeathed to him by will a whole province in Peru, 
the Peruvian ladies included. 

As he was swimming along in his imaginary Pactolus, 
the noise of a key turning in the lock interrupted the 
presumptuous legatee at the most resplendent moment 
of his golden dream. 

Rodolphe sat up in bed, his eyes and his mind still 
heavy with sleep, and looked about him. At last he 

(155) 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


J 5 6 

vaguely made out, in the middle of his room, a man 
who had just come in, and such a man ! 

The early visitor wore a three-cornered hat, had a 
wallet on his back, and in his hand a capacious portfolio ; 
he was dressed in a coat cut a la Frangaise , gray of hue, 
and seemed very short of breath from having climbed 
five flights of stairs. His manner was very affable, and 
his step as noisy as you would expect that of a money- 
changer’s desk to be, if it should begin to walk. 

Rodolphe was alarmed for a moment, thinking from 
the three-cornered hat and the gray coat that he had to 
do with a police officer. 

But the sight of the wallet, which seemed quite well 
lined, showed him his error. 

“ Ah ! I understand,” thought Rodolphe, “ this is a 
payment on account of my legacy; this man is from 
the Gulf of Mexico — But in that case, why isn’t he a 
negro? ” 

He motioned to the man and said, pointing to the 
wallet : 

“ I know what it is. Put it down. Thanks.” 

The man was a messenger from the Bank of France. 
In response to Rodolphe’s invitation, he placed before 
his eyes a slip of paper covered with hieroglyphics and 
figures in many colors. 

“Do you want a receipt? ” said Rodolphe. “Very 
good. Pass me the pen and ink. There they are on the 
table.” 


CAPE TEMPEST 


*57 

“No, I have come to collect a note for a hundred 
and fifty francs,” replied the bank messenger. “To- 
day is the 15 th of April.” 

“ Aha ! ” rejoined Rodolphe, examining the note. — 
“ Order of Birmann. He is my tailor. — Alas ! ” he 
added sadly, glancing alternately at the note and at 
a coat that lay on his bed, “causes disappear but 
effects 6 return. What ! to-day is the 15 th of April ? 
Extraordinary ! — And I haven’t had any strawberries 
yet ! ” 

The clerk, disgusted with his delay, left the room, 
saying : “You have until four o’clock to pay.” 

“ Honest men know nothing of time,” replied Ro- 
dolphe. — The sharper ! ” he added, looking after the 
financier in the three-cornered hat, “ he has carried away 
his wallet.” 

Rodolphe drew his bed curtains close and tried to take 
up the thread of his inheritance ; but he mistook the road, 
and entered vaingloriously upon a dream, in which the 
manager of the Th£atre-Frangais came to him, hat in 
hand, to solicit a drama for his theatre, and Rodolphe, 
who knew the customs, demanded a premium. But, 
just as the manager seemed on the point of complying, 
the sleeper was awakened anew by the entrance 
of another person, another creation of the 15 th of 
April. 

It was Monsieur Benoit, 7 the ill-named proprietor of 
the furnished lodging-house in which Rodolphe lived : 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


158 

Monsieur Benoit was landlord, boot- maker and money- 
lender to his tenants. 

On that particular morning he exhaled a disgusting 
odor of poor brandy and overdue receipts. He had an 
empty bag in his hand. 

“The devil ! ” thought Rodolphe, “this can’t be the 
manager of the Fran^ais — he would have a white cravat 
— and the bag would be full ! ” 

“ Good-day, Monsieur Rodolphe ! ” said Monsieur 
Benoit, approaching the bed. 

“ Monsieur Benoit — why, good morning ! To what 
do I owe the honor of your visit? ” 

“Why, I came to tell you that this is the 15th of 
April.” 

“ Already ! How time flies ! it’s most extraordinary ; 
I must buy some nankeen trousers. The 15 th of April ! 
Ah ! mon Dieu ! I never should have thought of it ex- 
cept for you, Monsieur Benoit. How much gratitude I 
owe you ! ” 

“ You owe me a hundred and sixty- two francs also,” 
retorted Monsieur Benoit, “ and it’s high time that little 
account was settled.” 

“ I am not really in any hurry — you shall not be an- 
noyed, Monsieur Benoit. I will give you time. The 
little account shall become great.” 

“ But you have already put me off several times,” 
said the landlord. 

“ In that case, let us settle, let us settle, Monsieur 


CAPE TEMPEST 


*59 


Benoit, it’s a matter of perfect indifference to me ; to-day 
or to-morrow — And then, we are all mortal — Let us 
settle.” 

A good-humored smile lighted up the landlord’s 
wrinkles ; and there was nothing about him even to his 
empty bag, that did not swell with hope. 

“ How much do I owe you? ” queried Rodolphe. 

“ In the first place there are three quarters’ rent at 
twenty- five francs, seventy-five francs.” 

“Errors excepted,” said Rodolphe. “What next?” 

“ Three pairs of boots at twenty francs.” 

“ One moment, one moment, Monsieur Benoit, let 
us not confuse matters ; I am dealing with the boot- 
maker now, not with the landlord — I must have a sep- 
arate bill. Figures are a serious matter; we mustn’t 
mix them up.” 

“Very good,” said Monsieur Benoit, appeased by the 
hope of putting a receipt at the bottom of his bills at last. 
“ Here’s a separate memorandum for the footwear. 
Three pairs of boots at twenty francs ; total, sixty francs.” 

Rodolphe glanced pityingly at a pair of foundered 
boots. 

“Alas!” he thought, “if the Wandering Jew had 
worn them, they wouldn’t be in worse shape. But I 
have worn them out, running after Marie. — Go on, Mon- 
sieur Benoit.” 

“ Sixty francs, I said. Also, money lent, twenty-seven 
francs.” 


i6o 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“Stop there, Monsieur Benoit. We agreed that 
every saint should have his niche. You lent me the 
money as a friend. So, if you please, we will leave the 
domain of footwear and enter the domains of confidence 
and friendship, which require a separate account. How 
much does your friendship for me amount to? ” 

“ Twenty-seven francs.” 

“Twenty-seven francs. You procured a friend 
cheap, Monsieur Benoit. So we say : seventy-five, 
sixty and twenty-seven. — How much does all that 
make ? ” 

“A hundred and sixty-two francs,” said Monsieur 
Benoit, handing him the three statements. 

“A hundred and sixty-two francs,” said Rodolphe ; 
“ it’s extraordinary. What a fine thing addition is ! 
Well, Monsieur Benoit, now that the account is settled, 
we can both be easy in our minds, we know where we 
stand. Next month, I will ask you for your receipt, and 
as your confidence in me and your friendship cannot fail 
to increase during that time, you can grant me further 
delay in case it should be necessary ; meanwhile, if the 
landlord and bootmaker should press me too hard, I 
should request the friend to make them listen to reason. 
It’s an extraordinary thing, Monsieur Benoit ; but when- 
ever I think of you in your triple character of landlord, 
bootmaker and friend, I am tempted to believe in the 
Holy Trinity.” 

As he listened to Rodolphe, the landlord turned red, 


CAPE TEMPEST 


161 


green, yellow and white all at once ; and at each fresh 
jest of his tenant, the colors of that rainbow of wrath 
grew deeper and deeper on his face. 

“ Monsieur,” he said, “ I do not enjoy being laughed 
at. I have waited long enough. I give you notice to 
quit, and if you don’t give me some money this evening 
— why, I shall see what comes next.” 

“ Money ! money ! have I asked you for any ? ” said 
Rodolphe ; “ and even if I had money I wouldn’t give 
it to you ; it’s Friday and it would bring you bad 
luck.” 

Monsieur Benoit’s wrath increased to a hurricane ; 
and if the furniture had not belonged to him he would 
undoubtedly have fractured the limbs of a chair. 

He left the room, uttering dire threats. 

“You forget your bag!” Rodolphe called after 
him. 

“ What a trade ! ” muttered the unfortunate youth 
when he was alone. “ I should prefer lion-taming. — 
But I can’t stay here,” he continued, jumping out of 
bed and dressing hastily. “ The invasion of the allies 
is sure to continue. I must fly, I must e’en breakfast. 
I have it — I will go and see Schaunard. I will ask him 
to invite me to breakfast, and I will borrow a few sous 
from him. A hundred francs will answer my purposes. 
— Here goes for Schaunard.” 

As he went downstairs, Rodolphe met Monsieur 
Benoit who had undergone fresh rebuffs from his other 


162 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


tenants, as was evidenced by his still empty bag, an 
object of art. 

“ If any one should call for me, you will say that I am 
in the country, — in the Alps,” said Rodolphe. “ Or no, 
say that I no longer live here.” 

“ I shall tell the truth,” muttered Monsieur Benoit 
with very significant emphasis. 

Schaunard lived at Montmartre. There was the whole 
width of Paris to cross. It was one of the most hazard- 
ous of journeys for Rodolphe. 

“To-day,” said he, “the streets are paved with credi- 
tors.” 

However, he did not go by the outer boulevards, as he 
was tempted to do. On the contrary, a fantastic hope 
emboldened him to follow the perilous course that led 
through the centre of Paris. Rodolphe reflected that, on 
a day when millions were riding about in public on the 
backs of bank clerks, it might well be that a thousand- 
franc note had fallen by the wayside and was awaiting 
its Vincent de Paul . 8 So he walked slowly with his 
eyes on the ground. But he found nothing but two 
pins. 

After walking about for two hours, he arrived at Schau- 
nard’s quarters. 

“Ah ! it’s you, is it? ” said that gentleman. 

“Yes, I have come to ask you to give me some break- 
fast.” 

“ You come at a bad time, my dear fellow ; my mis- 


CAPE TEMPEST 163 

tress has just arrived, and it’s a fortnight since I saw her ; 
if you had only come ten minutes earlier.” 

“ But haven’t you a hundred francs to lend me? ” 

“What! you too,” rejoined Schaunard, who seemed 
amazed beyond measure — “you come and ask me for 
money ! You join my enemies ! ” 

“ I’ll pay you on Monday.” 

“Yes, or at Trinity.9 My dear fellow, do you forget 
what day it is? I can do nothing for you. But there’s 
no occasion to despair, the day isn’t over. You may 
meet Providence yet, he doesn’t rise before noon.” 

“ Oh ! Providence has too much to do attending to 
the little birds,” said Rodolphe. “I’ll go and see 
Marcel.” 

Marcel at this time lived on Rue de Br£da. Rodolphe 
found him in a very melancholy mood, contemplating his 
great picture, which was to represent the Passage of the 
Red Sea. 

“What’s the matter?” Rodolphe asked, as he entered 
the room, “you seem very much cast down.” 

“ Alas ! ” said the painter, resorting to allegory, “ for 
a fortnight I have been in Holy Week.” 

To Rodolphe, that reply was as limpid as spring water. 

“Salt herring and black radishes! Very good. I 
remember.” 

In fact Rodolphe’s memory was still salted by remi- 
niscences of a time when he was reduced to a diet con- 
sisting exclusively of that fish. 


164 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

“ The devil ! the devil ! ” he said, “ this is serious ! I 
came to borrow a hundred francs of you.” 

“A hundred francs ! ” said Marcel. — “ You will never 
cease to live on your imagination, will you? To come 
and ask me for that mythological sum at a time when a 
man is always under the equator of necessity ! You have 
been taking hasheesh — ” 

“ Alas ! ” said Rodolphe, “ I haven’t taken anything 
at all.” 

And he left his friend on the shores of the Red 
Sea. 

From noon to four o’clock, Rodolphe steered for the 
houses of all his acquaintances one after another ; he 
scoured the forty-eight quarters and travelled about eight 
leagues, but without the least success. The influence of 
the 15 th of April made itself felt everywhere with equal 
severity. Meanwhile the dinner- hour was approaching ; 
but it hardly seemed as if dinner were approaching with 
the hour, and Rodolphe felt as if he were on the raft of 
Medusa. 

As he was crossing Pont Neuf he suddenly had a 
happy thought. 

“ Oho ! ” he said to himself as he retraced his steps, 
“ the 15 th of April, the 1 5 th of April — why, I have an 
invitation to dinner to-day.” 

He fumbled in his pocket and produced a printed 
ticket, on which were these words : 


CAPE TEMPEST 


i6 5 


Barriere de la Villette. 

AU GRAND VAINQUEUR. 

Dining-Hall with 300 Seats. 

ANNIVERSARY BANQUET 

IN HONOR OF THE BIRTH 

OF THE 

HUflANITARIAN iTESSIAH. 

April 13, 184 — 

Good for one person. 

N.B. — Each guest is entitled to only one-half bottle of wine. 


“ I do not share the opinions of the Messiah’s disci- 
ples,” said Rodolphe to himself, — “ but I will gladly share 
their good cheer.” And with the swift flight of a bird, 
he skimmed through the streets that lay between him and 
the barrier. 

When he appeared in the salons of the Grand Vain- 
queur , there was an enormous crowd. The dining-hall 
with three hundred seats contained five hundred persons. 
A boundless horizon of veal with carrots was unrolled 
before Rodolphe’s eyes. 

They were just beginning to serve the soup. 



i66 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


As the guests were putting their spoons to their lips, 
five or six men in citizens’ clothes and several officers 
burst into the room, a commissioner of police at their 
head. 

“Messieurs,” said the commissioner, “by order of 
those in authority, the banquet cannot take place. I 
call upon you to withdraw.” 

“Ah, me!” said Rodolphe, as he went out with the 
crowd ; “ ah, me ! my soup is upset by fatality ! ” 

He walked sadly homeward, and reached his domicile 
about eleven at night. 

Monsieur Benoit was waiting for him. 

“Ah ! there you are,” he said. “ Have you thought 
over what I said to you this morning? Have you 
brought me any money? ” 

“ I expect to receive some to-night ; I will give you 
some to-morrow morning,” said Rodolphe, looking for 
his key and his candlestick on the shelf. He found 
neither. 

“Monsieur Rodolphe,” said Monsieur Benoit, “I anr 
very sorry, but I have let your room, and I have no other 
at liberty. You must look elsewhere.” 

Rodolphe had a stout heart, and the prospect of a 
night under the stars did not alarm him. Furthermore, 
in case the weather should be bad, he could sleep in a 
proscenium box at the Od£on, as he had done before. 
But he demanded his property from Monsieur Benoit, 
which property consisted of a bundle of papers. 


CAPE TEMPEST 


167 


“ That is fair,” said the landlord. “ I have no right 
to detain that stuff, and I left it in the desk. Come up 
with me ; if the person who has taken your room hasn’t 
gone to bed, we can go in.” 

The room had been let during the day to a girl called 
Mimi, with whom Rodolphe had once begun a duet of 
affection. 

They knew each other instantly. Rodolphe whispered 
in Mimi’s ear, and gently pressed her hand. 

“See how it rains ! ” he said, calling her attention to 
the noise made by a storm which had just begun. 

Mademoiselle Mimi went straight to Monsieur Benoit, 
who was waiting in a corner of the room 

“ Monsieur,” she said, pointing to Rodolphe, “ Mon- 
sieur is the person I expected to-night. I am not at 
home to anybody now.” 

“ Oho ! ” exclaimed Monsieur Benoit with a wry face. 
“ Very good ! ” 

While Mademoiselle Mimi was hastily preparing an 
impromptu supper, the clock struck twelve. 

“Ah ! ” said Rodolphe to himself, “'the 15th of April 
has passed ; I have doubled my Cape Tempest. Dear 
Mimi,” he said, taking the pretty girl in his arms and 
kissing her on the back of the neck, “ it wouldn’t have 
been possible for you to let me be turned out of doors. 
You have the bump of hospitality.” 




A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


The following is the chain of circumstances by which 
Carolus Barbemuche, man of letters and Platonist philos- 
opher, became a Bohemian in the twenty-fourth year of 
his age. 

In those days, Gustave Colline, the great philosopher, 
Marcel, the great painter, Schaunard, the great musi- 
cian, and Rodolphe, the great poet, by which titles they 
were known to one another, frequented regularly the 
Caf6 Momus, where they are known as the Four Musket- 
eers, because they were always seen together. In truth, 
they came and went together, played together, and some- 
times failed to pay for their entertainment, always with a 
unanimity worthy of the orchestra at the Conservatory. 

They had chosen for their meetings a room where 
forty persons could be comfortably accommodated ; but 
they were always found alone, for they had ended by 
making the place unendurable to the regular habitues. 

The transient guest who ventured into that den be- 
came, as soon as he showed his face, the victim of the 
(i6 9 ) 


170 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


ferocious four, and, as a general rule, made his escape 
without finishing his newspaper and his cup of coffee, 
the cream in which was soured by the hitherto unheard- 
of aphorisms on art, sentiment and political economy. 
The conversation of the four cronies was of such a na- 
ture that the waiter who attended to their wants became 
an idiot in the prime of life. 

At last, affairs reached such a point of arbitrariness 
that the master of the caf£ lost patience, and one even- 
ing, in all seriousness, drew up the following statement 
of his grievances : 

1 st. — Monsieur Rodolphe came to breakfast in the morn- 
ing and carried all the newspapers of the establishment 
into his room ; he even carried his unreasonableness so 
far as to lose his temper when he found the wrappers re- 
moved, the result being that the other regular guests, 
being deprived of the organs of public opinion, remained 
until dinner-time as ignorant in matters political as so 
many carp. The Bosquet Society hardly knew the 
names of the members of the last cabinet. 

Monsieur Rodolphe had even compelled the caf£ to sub- 
scribe to Le Castor , of which he was the editor-in-chief. 
The master of the establishment had declined at first ; 
but as Monsieur Rodolphe and his friends kept calling 
the waiter every fifteen minutes and shouting : “ Le 
Castor! bring me Le Castor !” some other guests, 
whose curiosity was aroused by these persistent de- 
mands, also called for Le Castor. So a subscription was 


A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


171 

taken to Le Castor /, an organ of the hat trade which 
appeared monthly, embellished with a vignette and with 
a philosophical article by Gustave Colline in the Varietes 
column. 

2d. — The said Colline and Monsieur Rodolphe 
sought relaxation after their intellectual labors by play- 
ing at backgammon from ten o’clock in the morning 
until midnight ; and as the establishment possessed but 
one backgammon board, the other guests were aggrieved 
in their passion for the game by the monopolistic spirit 
of those gentlemen, who, whenever any one asked them 
for the board, made no other answer than : 

“ The backgammon board is in use ; call again to- 
morrow.” 

The Bosquet Society were thus reduced to the neces- 
sity of telling the story of their early love-affairs or play- 
ing at piquet. 

3d. — Monsieur Marcel, forgetting that a cafe is a 
public place, has taken the liberty of bringing thither his 
easel, his box of paints and all the utensils of his art. 
He even carries impropriety so far as to bring models of 
various sexes there. All of which is painful to the 
moral sense of the Bosquet Society. 

4th. — Following his friend’s example, Monsieur Schau- 
nard speaks of bringing his piano into the cate, and 
is even bold enough to lead a chorus in singing an air 
from his symphony: The Influence of the Blue in Art. 
Monsieur Schaunard has gone even farther than that, he 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


172 

has introduced into the lantern used as a sign, a trans- 
parency which reads : 

“ Gratuitous Course in Vocal and Instrumental 
Music for both Sexes. 

Apply at the desk.” 

The result of which is, that the said desk is surrounded 
every evening by persons in slovenly attire asking how 
you get to the music-room. 

Moreover, Monsieur Schaunard makes appointments 
there with a lady named Ph6mie Teinturiere, who always 
forgets her cap. 

Therefore, Monsieur Bosquet junior has declared that 
he will never again set foot in an establishment where 
nature is thus outraged. 

5 th. — Not content with a very moderate consumption 
of food and drink, these gentlemen have tried to reduce 
it even more. On the pretext that they have surprised 
the mocha of the establishment in illicit relations with 
chicory, they have brought a spirit of wine filter and 
make their coffee themselves, sweetening it with sugar 
bought elsewhere at a low price, thus offering an insult 
to the laboratory. 

6th. — Corrupted by the conversation of these gentle- 
men, the waiter, Bergami — so called because of his whis- 
kers — forgetting his humble birth and defying all re- 
straint, has had the effrontery to address the cashier in a 


A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


173 


piece of poetry in which he urges her to forget her duties 
as a wife and mother ; by the confused style in which 
the effusion was written, it is clear that it was done under 
the pernicious influence of Monsieur Rodolphe and his 
literary productions. 

Wherefore, notwithstanding his regret, the manager of 
the establishment finds it necessary to request the Col- 
line Society to find another place for its revolutionary 
conferences. 

Colline, who was the Cicero of the clique, took the 
floor, and demonstrated, a priori , to the proprietor of the 
caf£, that his complaints were absurd and without founda- 
tion ; that they did him great honor by selecting his 
establishment to make of it an abiding place of intel- 
lectual knowledge ; that the departure of himself and 
his friends would bring about the ruin of his house, which 
their presence had raised to the level of the artistic and 
literary caf£. 

“ But,” said the proprietor, “ you, and those who come 
to see you, eat and drink so little.” 

“ The sobriety of which you complain is an argument 
in favor of our morals,” retorted Colline. “ However, it 
rests entirely with you whether we spend a more con- 
siderable amount here or not ; all you have to do is to 
open an account with us.” 

“We will furnish the book,” said Marcel. 

The proprietor pretended not to hear, but asked for 
some information as to the inflammatory letter Bergami 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


174 

had written to his wife. Rodolphe, accused of having 
acted as secretary to that unlawful passion, energetically 
asserted his innocence. 

“ In any event,” he added, “ madame’s virtue was a 
sure safeguard, which — ” 

“ Oh ! ” said the host with a proud smile, “ My wife 
was brought up at St. Denis.” 

To make a long story short, Colline succeeded in en- 
veloping him completely in the folds of his insidious elo- 
quence, and everything was satisfactorily adjusted on 
condition that the four friends would cease to make their 
own coffee; that the caf£ should thenceforth receive 
Le Castor free, that Phemie Teinturiere should wear a 
cap ; that the backgammon board should be surrendered 
to the Bosquet people every Sunday, from noon until 
two o’clock, and, above all, that they should not ask for 
any extension of credit. 

Everything went well for a few days. 

On Christmas Eve the four friends appeared at the 
caf£, accompanied by their sweethearts. 

There were Mademoiselle Musette, Mademoiselle 
Mimi, Rodolphe’s new mistress, an adorable creature, 
whose loud voice had the clang of a pair of cymbals, and 
Phemie Teinturiere, Schaunard’s idol. On that occasion 
Phemie Teinturiere wore a cap. As for Mademoiselle 
Colline, whom no one ever saw, she had as usual remained 
at home, engaged in inserting commas in the manuscripts 
of her lover. After the coffee, which was, with un- 


A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


*75 


usual luxury, escorted by a phalanx of petits verves , they 
ordered punch. The waiter, unaccustomed to such mag- 
nificence, made them repeat the order twice. Ph^mie, 
who had never been at the caf£, seemed overjoyed, en- 
chanted to drink from glasses with feet. Marcel engaged 
in a dispute with Musette on the subject of a new hat, 
whose source he suspected. Mimi and Rodolphe, who 
were still in the honeymoon of their union, had a silent 
conversation together, interrupted by strange resonant 
sounds. Meanwhile Colline went from lady to lady, with 
his mouth in the shape of a heart, dropping here and 
there amorous gewgaws of style culled from the collec- 
tion of the Muses' Almanac . 

While this jovial party abandoned themselves thus 
to laughter and frolicking, a stranger, seated at a 
table apart from the others, at the end of the room, 
watched the animated scene being enacted before him 
with eyes which were lighted up by a curious expres- 
sion. 

For about a fortnight he had come every evening ; he 
was the only one of all the customers who had been able 
to endure the frightful uproar made by the Bohemians. 
The wildest tirades had no effect on him ; he remained 
there throughout the evening, smoking his pipe with 
mathematical regularity, eyes fixed, as if he were keeping 
guard over a treasure, and ears open to everything that 
was said in his neighborhood. In other respects he 
seemed mild-mannered and in easy circumstances, for he 


176 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


possessed a watch held in bondage in his pocket by a 
gold chain. And one day when Marcel met him at the 
desk, he found him paying for his entertainment with a 
louis d’or. From that moment the four friends spoke of 
him as the capitalist. 

Suddenly Schaunard, whose eyesight was excellent, 
noticed that the glasses were empty. 

“ Parbleu ! ” said Rodolphe, “ this is the Christmas 
Eve supper ; we are all good Christians ; we must have 
something extra.” 

“ Faith, yes,” said Marcel ; “ let us order supernatural 
things.” 

“Colline, ring for the waiter,” suggested Rodolphe. 

Colline pulled the bell-cord with frenzied violence. 

“What shall we take?” said Marcel. 

Colline bent over like a bow and said, pointing to the 
women : 

“ It is the privilege of the ladies to regulate the order 
and the pace of the refreshments.” 

“ For my part,” said Musette, smacking her lips, “ I 
shouldn’t be afraid of some champagne.” 

“Are you mad?” exclaimed Marcel. “ In the first 
place, champagne isn’t wine.” 

“ Never mind, I like it ; it makes a noise.” 

“ As for me,” said Mimi, with a coaxing glance at 
Rodolphe, “ I prefer Beaune in a little basket.” 

“Are you losing your head? ” queried Rodolphe. 

“ No, but I want to lose it,” replied Mimi, upon whom 


ffifjapter X5 


While this jovial party abandoned themselves thus to 
laughter and frolicking , a stranger , seated at a table 
apart from the others , at the end of the room , watched the 
animated scene being enacted before him with eyes which 
were lighted up by a curious expression. 


’ s A 


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"\q \is^ \a ,vt*&to sM ww\h»\a 
AYms a %jK&& *>«m tataHUKSt 

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A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


I 77 

Beaune had a peculiar effect. Her lover was thunder- 
struck by her reply. 

“ For my part,” said Ph£mie Teinturtere, jumping up 
and down on the springy couch, “ I prefer Parfait 
Amour. It’s good for the stomach.” 

Schaunard uttered in a nasal voice a few words which 
made Ph£mie tremble on her foundation. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” — it was Marcel who broke the silence 
that ensued, — “ let’s spend a hundred thousand francs 
for once in a way.” 

“And then,” added Rodolphe, “ they complain at the 
desk that we don’t order enough. We must overwhelm 
them with amazement.” 

“Yes,” said Colline, “let us have a magnificent ban- 
quet ; besides, we owe these ladies absolute obedience, 
love lives by devotion, wine is the juice of pleas- 
ure, pleasure is the duty of youth, women are flowers 
and we must water them. Let us do it ! Waiter ! 
waiter ! ” 

And Colline jerked at the bell- rope with feverish ex- 
citement. 

The waiter arrived with the speed of the north 
wind. 

When he heard the names of Champagne and Beaune 
and divers liqueurs, his features ran through the whole 
gamut of surprise. 

“ I have holes in my stomach,” said Mimi, “ I could 
eat some ham.” 


12 


178 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Sardines and butter for me,” added Musette. 

“ And radishes for me,” said Phemie, “with a little 
meat around 

“Why don’t you say right out that you want supper, 
eh? ” said Marcel. 

“That would suit us,” replied the women. 

“Waiter ! send up whatever we need for supper,” said 
Colline gravely. 

The waiter had turned tri-color with surprise. 

He went slowly downstairs to the desk and informed 
the proprietor of the extraordinary things his guests had 
ordered. 

The proprietor supposed that it was a joke, but upon 
a fresh peal of the bell, he went up himself and addressed 
himself to Colline, for whom he had a certain amount of 
esteem. Colline explained to him that they desired to 
celebrate the midnight Christmas Eve festival under his 
roof, and that they would thank him to serve what they 
had ordered. 

The host made no reply, but walked backwards from 
the room, tying knots in his napkin. He consulted with 
his wife for a quarter of an hour, and, thanks to the liberal 
education she had received at St. Denis, that lady, who 
had a weakness for the fine arts and belles-lettres, urged 
her husband to serve the supper. 

“After all,” said the proprietor, “ they may have some 
money for once in a way.” And he ordered the waiter 
to carry up everything they had ordered. Then he be- 


A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


*79 

came absorbed in a game of piquet with an old customer. 
Fatal imprudence ! 

From ten o’clock until midnight, the waiter did noth- 
ing but go upstairs and downstairs. Every moment they 
called upon him for supplementary supplies. Musette 
demanded to be served in the English fashion, and 
changed her plate at every mouthful ; Mimi drank all 
the kinds of wine from all the glasses ; Schaunard had 
an unquenchable Sahara in his throat ; Colline discharged 
cross-fires with his eyes, and, while he tore his napkin 
with his teeth, squeezed the leg of the table, which he 
mistook for Ph£mie’s knees. But Marcel and Rodolphe 
did not leave the stirrups of cool-headedness, and ob- 
served, not without anxiety, the approach of the catas- 
trophe. 

The stranger contemplated the scene with grave curi- 
osity; from time to time his mouth opened as if to 
smile ; then there would be a sound like the squeaking 
of a window being closed. It was the stranger laughing 
inwardly. 

At quarter to twelve the cashier sent up the bill. It 
attained a dizzy height — 25 francs 75 centimes. 

“ Come,” said Marcel, “ we must draw lots to see 
who shall go and negotiate with the proprietor. That 
is going to be a serious business.” 

They took a set of dominoes and drew to see who 
got the largest number. 

Unluckily fate selected Schaunard as plenipotentiary. 


180 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

Schaunard was an excellent musician, but a wretched 
diplomatist. He reached the desk just as the proprietor 
lost a game to his old customer. Bowed beneath the 
disgrace of three capots , Momus was in a murderous 
humor, and flew into a violent rage at Schaunard’s first 
overtures. Schaunard was a good musician, but he had 
a lamentable disposition. He retorted with double- 
barreled insolence. The quarrel became more and more 
bitter, and the proprietor went upstairs to inform the 
party that they would have to pay or else they could not 
leave the place. Colline tried to intervene with his 
chastened eloquence, but when his eye fell upon the 
napkin that Colline had made into lint, the proprietor’s 
wrath redoubled in fury, and, to secure himself against 
loss, he ventured to lay a profane hand on the philoso- 
pher’s nut-brown overcoat and the ladies’ cloaks. 

There was a constant interchange of volleys of insults 
between the Bohemians and the master of the establish- 
ment. 

The three women talked of love-affairs and dresses. 

The stranger laid aside his impassive demeanor ; he 
rose slowly to his feet, took one step, then two, and 
walked like an ordinary mortal; he went up to the 
proprietor, led him aside and talked to him in an under- 
tone. Rodolphe and Marcel looked after him. At last 
the host went out, saying to the stranger : 

“ Of course I consent, Monsieur Barbemuche, of 
course ; arrange it with them.” 


A BOHEMIAN CAFE 


1 8 1 

Monsieur Barbemuche returned to his table for his hat, 
put it on his head, wheeled to the right, and in three 
steps reached Rodolphe and Marcel, removed his hat, 
bowed to the men, waved his hand to the ladies, drew 
his handkerchief, blew his nose, and began in a hesitat- 
ing voice : 

“ Pardon, messieurs, the indiscretion I am about to 
commit. I have long been burning with the desire to 
make your acquaintance, but I had not found hitherto a 
favorable opportunity to enter into communication with 
you. Will you permit me to take advantage of that 
which presents itself to-day? ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said Colline, who saw what the 
stranger was coming at. 

Rodolphe and Marcel bowed without speaking. 

Schaunard’s over-keen sense of delicacy came near 
ruining everything. 

“Excuse me, monsieur,” he said sharply, “you have 
not the honor of knowing us, and the proprieties forbid 
our — would you be kind enough to give me a pipe full 
of tobacco? — In any case, I shall agree with my 
friends.” 

“ Messieurs,” rejoined Barbemuche, “ I am, like your- 
self, a disciple of the fine arts. So far as I have been 
able to discover from hearing your talk, our tastes are the 
same. I have a most earnest desire to be counted among 
your friends and to be able to join you here every even- 
ing. The proprietor of this establishment is a brute, but 


182 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


I have said a few words to him, and you are at liberty to 
retire. I venture to hope that you will not deny me the 
privilege of making it possible to find you here as usual, 
and that you will accept the trifling service which — ” 

A flush of indignation overspread Schaunard’s face. 

“He speculates on our plight,” he said, “we cannot 
accept. He has paid our bill. I propose to play him 
a game of billiards for twenty-five francs and give him 
points.” 

Barbemuche accepted the suggestion and had the 
good sense to lose ; that well-judged act won for him 
the esteem of Bohemia. 

They parted, agreeing to meet the next day. 

“ In that way,” said Schaunard to Marcel, “ we owe 
him nothing; our dignity is upheld.” 

“ And we might almost order another supper,” said 
Colline. 


XII 

A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 

On the evening when Carolus paid out of his own 
purse the bill for a supper consumed by the Bohe- 
mians, he arranged matters so that he left the caf£ 
with Gustave Colline. Since he had been present as a 
spectator at the meetings of the four friends in the estab- 
lishment where he had rescued them from their embar- 
rassing position, Carolus had been especially attracted by 
Colline, and had a sort of sympathetic feeling for that 
Socrates, whose Plato he was destined later to become. 
That is why he had selected him at the outset to be his 
sponsor in the club. As they walked, Barbemuche in- 
vited Colline to go into a caf£ which was still open, and 
take something. Not only did Colline refuse, but he 
quickened his pace as they passed the cafe aforesaid and 
carefully pulled a hyperphysical felt hat over his eyes. 

“Why don’t you want to go in there?” said Barbe- 
muche, insisting with due courtesy. 

“ I have my reasons,” Colline replied ; “ there’s a 

lady cashier in that establishment, who is much addicted 
(183) 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


184 

to the exact sciences, and I could not avoid having a 
very prolonged discussion with her, which I seek to avert 
by never passing through this street at midday or at 
any other hour of daylight. Oh ! it’s very simple,” he 
continued artlessly, “ I once lived in this quarter with 
Marcel.” 

“ I would have liked very much to drink a glass of 
punch and have a few moments’ conversation with you. 
Don’t you know some place in the neighborhood where 
you can go, undeterred by — mathematical obstacles?” 
queried Barbemuche who deemed it advisable to be im- 
mensely clever. Colline reflected a moment. 

“There’s a little place where my standing is less 
equivocal,” he .said, pointing to a wine-shop. 

Barbemuche made a wry face and seemed to hesitate. 

“Is that a suitable place?” he asked. In view of 
his cool and reserved demeanor, his infrequent speech, 
his sedate smile, and especially his watch and its chain 
and charms, Colline had formed the opinion that Barbe- 
muche was employed at some embassy, and he supposed 
that he feared to compromise himself by entering a 
cabaret. 

“ There’s no danger of our being seen,” he said ; “ at 
this time of night the whole diplomatic corps is in bed.” 

Barbemuche decided to go in ; but, in the depth of 
his soul, he wished that he had a false nose. For 
greater security he asked for a private room and took 
nains to pin a napkin over the panes of glass in the 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 185 

door. Those precautions taken, he seemed less dis- 
turbed in his mind and ordered a bowl of punch. Ex- 
cited somewhat by the warmth of the beverage, Barbe- 
muche became more communicative ; and after giving 
some details concerning himself, he ventured to give ut- 
terance to the hope he had conceived of being formally 
admitted to the Bohemian Society, and solicited Col- 
line’s support in his efforts to gratify that ambitious as- 
piration. Colline answered that, so far as he was con- 
cerned, he was entirely at Barbemuche’s service, but that 
he could make no definite promises. 

“ I promise you my vote,” he said, “ but I cannot un- 
dertake to dispose of the votes of my companions.” 

“ But what reason could they have for refusing to ad- 
mit me among them?” asked Barbemuche. 

Colline placed upon the table the glass he was pre- 
paring to put to his lips, and with a very grave air ad- 
dressed the audacious Carolus in almost these words : 

li Do you cultivate the fine arts? ” 

“ I plough in a modest way those noble fields 
of learning,” replied Carolus, determined to hoist the 
colors of his rhetorical style. 

Colline deemed the sentence a well-constructed one 
and bowed. 

“ Do you know music? ” he continued. 

“ I have played the bass-viol.” 

“ That is a philosophic instrument, it gives forth sol- 
emn sounds. In that case, if you know music, you will 


i86 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


understand that you cannot, without offending the laws 
of harmony, introduce a fifth performer into a quartette ; 
if you do, it ceases to be a quartette.” 

“ It becomes a quintette,” said Carolus. 

“ I beg your pardon? ” 

“A quintette.” 

“ Exactly ; just as if you add another person to the 
Trinity, that divine triangle becomes a square, and 
there’s your religion cracked at its foundation ! ” 

“ Excuse me,” said Carolus, whose mind was begin- 
ning to stumble among the thorns of Colline’s argument, 
“ I don’t quite see — ” 

“Look and follow me,” continued Colline ; “do you 
know astronomy? ” 

“A little; I have a bachelor’s degree.” 

“There’s a ballad on that theme,” said Colline, 
“‘Lisette’s Bachelor’. — I don’t remember the tune. — 
Then you must know that there are four cardinal points. 
Well, suppose a fifth cardinal point should appear, the 
whole harmonious system of nature would be upset. 
That’s what’s called a cataclysm. Do you under- 
stand? ” 

“ I await your conclusion.” 

“ To be sure, the conclusion is the end of the dis- 
course, just as death is the end of life, and marriage the 
end of love. Well, my dear monsieur, my friends and I 
are used to living together, and we are afraid that the 
introduction of another person may break up the har- 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


187 


mony that prevails in our concert of morals, opinions, 
tastes and dispositions. We are bound some day to be 
the four cardinal points of contemporary art ; I tell you 
this frankly; and, being accustomed to the idea, it 
would annoy us to see a fifth cardinal point — ” 

“ But, after all, when there are four of you, there might 
as well be five,” suggested Carolus. 

“Yes, but then we are no longer four.” 

“That’s a paltry excuse.” 

“ There is nothing paltry in this world, everything is 
in everything, small brooks make great rivers, small syl- 
lables make hexameters, and the mountains are made of 
grains of sand ; that’s all in the Wisdom of Nations ; 
there’s a copy of it on the quay.” 

“You think, then, that those gentlemen will object to 
admitting me to the honor of their private circle? ” 

“ I am afraid so,” said Colline, who never missed an 
occasion for jesting . 10 

“I beg your pardon?” rejoined Carolus in amaze- 
ment. 

“ Excuse me — that’s a flash in the pan ! — Tell me, 
my dear monsieur,” said Colline, “which furrow in all 
the noble fields of knowledge you prefer to plough? ” 

“ The great philosophers and best classic authors are 
my novels ; I feed upon them. Telemaque first aroused 
in me the passion by which I am consumed.” 

“ Telemaque is very common on the quay,” said Col- 
line. “ You can always find it there ; I bought it for 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


1 88 

five sous because it was a second-hand copy ; however, 
I would consent to dispose of it to oblige you. It’s a 
good book, by the way, and well written for the time.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” Carolus continued, “exalted phi- 
losophy and healthy literature are what I aspire to. To 
my mind, art is a priesthood.” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” — rejoined Colline, “there’s a song 
about that too.” 

And he began to sing : 

Yes, art is a priesthood 
And we know how to use it. 

“ I believe it’s in Robert le DiableR 

“ I was saying that, art being a solemn function, 
writers ought always ” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur,” Colline interrupted him, 
hearing a clock strike an advanced hour, “ it will soon 
be to-morrow morning, and I am afraid of causing anx- 
iety to a person who is dear to me ; besides,” he mut- 
tered to himself, “ I promised her I’d come home — it’s 
her day ! ” 

“ In truth, it is late,” said Carolus, “ let us go.” 

“ Do you live far away ? ” 

“ Rue Royale-Saint-Honor£, No. io.” 

Colline had once had occasion to go to that house and 
remembered that it was a magnificent mansion. 

“ I will speak with those gentlemen about you,” he 
said to Carolus as they parted, “ and be sure that I will 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 189 

use my influence to induce them to look favorably upon 
you. — By the way, allow me to give you a little ad- 
vice.” 

“ Speak,” said Carolus. 

“ Be affable and polite to Mesdemoiselles Mimi, Mu- 
sette and Ph£mie ; those ladies possess great influence 
over my friends, and if you are able to subject them to 
pressure from their mistresses, you will succeed more 
readily in obtaining what you want from Marcel, Schau- 
nard and Rodolphe.” 

“ I will try,” said Carolus. 

The next morning Colline dropped down in the midst 
of the Bohemian phalanstery ; it was the breakfast hour 
and the breakfast had arrived with the hour. The three 
families were at table and indulging in a debauch of arti- 
chokes with pepper and vinegar. 

“The deuce ! ” said Colline, “ they live well here; it 
can’t last. — I come,” he said, “as an ambassador of the 
generous mortal we met last evening at the caf£.” 

“ Has he sent already to demand the money he ad- 
vanced for us?” asked Marcel. 

“ Oh ! I wouldn’t have thought it of him,” said Ma- 
demoiselle Mimi, “ he had such a comme il faut way 
about him ! ” 

“ That’s not my errand,” said Colline ; “ the young 
man desires to be one of us ; he is willing to take some 
stock in our company, and to share in the profit, of 


course. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


190 

The three Bohemians raised their heads and ex- 
changed glances. 

‘‘There you have it,” Colline concluded, “and now 
the question is open for discussion.” 

“What is the social standing of your prot£g£?” 
queried Rodolphe. 

“ He is not my prot£g£,” Colline retorted ; “ last night, 
when I left you, you asked me to follow him ; he there- 
upon asked me to accompany him, which I was very 
glad to do. So I went with him ; he entertained me 
part of the night with attentions and fine liquor, but I 
nevertheless retained my independence.” 

“Very good,” said Schaunard. 

“ Sketch some of the principal points of his character 
for us,” said Marcel. 

“ Grandeur of soul, austere morals, afraid to go into 
wine-shops, bachelor of letters, a victim of candor, plays 
the bass-viol, a nature that sometimes changes five-franc 
pieces.” 

“Very good,” said Schaunard. 

“What are his hopes?” 

“ I have already told you that his ambition has 
no limits; he aspires to be on familiar terms with 
us.” 

“ That is to say, he wants to work us,” said Marcel. 
“ He wants to be seen riding in our carriages.” 

“ What is his branch of art? ” Rodolphe inquired. 

“Yes, what game does he play? ” added Marcel. 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


191 

“His branch of art? what game does he play?” re- 
peated Colline. “ Literature and philosophy mixed.” 

“ What is the extent of his philosophic knowledge? ” 

“ He practises a sort of departmental philosophy. 
He calls art a priesthood.” 

“ A priesthood ! ” exclaimed Rodolphe in dismay, 

“That is what he says.” 

“ And what is his line in literature ? ” 

“ He converses with Telemaque.” 

“Very good,” said Schaunard, nibbling at the outer 
husk of the artichoke. 

“ What ! very good, idiot? ” exclaimed Marcel, “ look 
out you don’t repeat that in the street.” 

Schaunard, vexed by that reprimand, kicked Ph£mie 
under the table, having surprised her making an attack 
upon the sauce. 

“Once more,” said Rodolphe, “what is his position 
in society? what does he live upon? his name, his 
abode?” 

“ His position is an honorable one, he is a professor of 
all sorts of things in the bosom of a wealthy family. 
His name is Carolus Barbemuche, he squanders his in- 
come in luxurious living, and lodges on Rue Royale in 
a fine mansion.” 

“ Furnished lodgings? ” 

“ No, there is real furniture there.” 

« I ask for the floor,” said Marcel. “ It is perfectly 
plain to me that Colline is corrupted ; he has sold his 


192 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


vote in advance for a certain number of petits verves. 
Do not interrupt,” he added, seeing the philosopher rise 
to protest, “ you can answer directly. Colline, a venal 
creature, has presented this stranger to you in an aspect 
too favorable to be the image of truth. As I told you, 
I see through this stranger’s schemes. He intends to 
speculate upon his connection with us. He said to him- 
self : “ There are some young bloods who are getting on 
in the world ; I must stow myself away in their pockets 
and arrive with them at the landing-stage of renown.” 

“Very good,” said Schaunard, “is there any more 
sauce? ” 

“ No,” replied Rodolphe, “ the edition is exhausted.” 

“ On the other hand,” continued Marcel, “ this insidi- 
ous mortal whom Colline has taken under his protection, 
perhaps aspires to the honor of our intimacy, with none 
but guilty purposes. We are not alone here, messieurs,” 
continued the orator, with an eloquent glance at the 
ladies ; “ and Colline’s protege, insinuating himself into 
our homes under the cloak of literature, may prove to 
be nothing less than a felonious seducer. Reflect ! For 
myself, I vote against his admission.”' 

“ I demand the floor for a correction simply,” said 
Rodolphe. “ In his noteworthy extemporaneous re- 
marks, Marcel said that this Carolus designed, with the 
purpose of bringing dishonor upon us, to insinuate him- 
self among us under the cloak of literature.” 

“ That was a parliamentary metaphor,” said Marcel. 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


*93 

Literature 


“ I rebuke that metaphor ; it is very poor, 
has no cloak.” 

“ As I perform the functions of reporter in this 
matter,” said Colline, rising, “ I will uphold the con- 
clusions of my report. The jealousy which consumes 
him, leads our friend Marcel astray ; the great artist is 
mad—” 

“ Order ! ” roared Marcel. 

“ Mad in that he, being such a clever draughtsman, 
introduced into his discourse a figure whose incorrect- 
ness has been clearly pointed out by the able orator who 
preceded me in this tribune.” 

“ Colline is an idiot ! ” cried Marcel, bringing his fist 
down upon the table with a violence that caused a pro- 
found sensation among the plates ; “ Colline understands 
nothing at all about sentiment, he is incompetent to deal 
with the question, he has an old book in place of a 
heart ! ” 

Prolonged laughter from Schaunard. 

Throughout that uproar, Colline gravely shook the 
torrents of eloquence contained in the folds of his white 
cravat. When silence was restored, he continued his 
discourse thus : 

“ Messieurs, I propose with a single word to banish 
from your minds the chimerical fears which Marcel's 
suspicions may have inspired in relation to Carolus.” 

“Just let’s see you try to banish them,” said Marcel 

mockingly. 

13 


94 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“It will be no harder than that,” retorted Colline, 
extinguishing with a breath the match with which he had 
just lighted his pipe. 

“ Say on ! say on ! ” cried Rodolphe, Schaunard and the 
women in unison, the debate affording them unbounded 
amusement. 

“Messieurs,” said Colline, “although I have been 
personally and vehemently attacked in this presence, al- 
though I have been accused of having sold for spiritu- 
ous liquors such influence as I may be able to exert 
among you, having an untroubled conscience, I will not 
reply to the assaults that have been made on my probity, 
my loyalty, my morals.” — Sensation — “ But I propose to 
enforce respect for one thing.” The orator dealt himself 
two blows on the paunch. “ Doubts have been cast upon 
my prudence which is well known to you all. I am accused 
of wishing to introduce among you a mortal who enter- 
tains hostile designs upon your — sentimental happiness. 
Such a supposition is an insult to the virtue of these 
ladies, and, furthermore, an insult to their good taste. 
Carolus Barbemuche is exceedingly ugly,” — Visible 
dissent upon Ph£mie Teinturiere’s face. Tumult under 
the table. It is Schaunard chastising with kicks the 
compromising frankness of his young friend. 

“ But,” continued Colline, “ th£ one fact that will re- 
duce to dust the pitiful argument which my adversary 
working upon your fears, uses as a weapon against Ca- 
rolus, is this — the said Carolus is a platonist philoso- 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


*95 

pher ! ” — Sensation among the men, uproar among the 
women. 

“Platonist — what does that mean?” queried Ph£mie. 

“ IPs the disease men have who don’t dare to kiss 
women,” said Mimi ; “I once had a lover like that; I 
kept him two hours.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense ! ” exclaimed Mademoiselle 
Musette. 

“You are right, my dear,” said Marcel, “Platonism 
in love is like water in wine ! Let’s take our wine 
pure.” 

“ And vive la jeunesse ! ’ ’ added Musette. 

Colline’s announcement had caused a revulsion of 
feeling in Carolus’s favor. The philosopher determined 
to take advantage of the reaction due to his eloquent 
and adroit defence. 

“ Now,” he continued, “ I do not quite see what ob- 
jections can be raised against this young man, who, say 
what you will, did us a service. As for myself, who 
have been accused of acting hastily in seeking to intro- 
duce him among us, I consider that opinion offensive to 
my dignity. I have acted in this matter with the pru- 
dence of the serpent ; and if an affirmative vote does not 
establish that prudence, I offer my resignation.” 

“Do you wish to submit the question? ” said Marcel. 

“ I submit it,” Colline replied. 

The three Bohemians consulted, and unanimously 
agreed that the philosopher be credited with the exalted 


196 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


prudence which he claimed. Colline thereupon aban- 
doned the floor to Marcel, who, having conquered his 
prejudices to some extent, declared that he would per- 
haps vote to sustain the conclusions of the reporter. 
But before taking the decisive vote which would throw 
open to Carolus the doors of Bohemia, Marcel caused 
this amendment to be voted upon : 

“ As the admission of a new member to the club is a 
serious matter, as a stranger, being ignorant of the man- 
ners, dispositions and opinions of his comrades, might 
import elements of discord, each of the present members 
should pass a day with the aforesaid Carolus, and should 
devote that time to an inquiry into his life, his tastes, 
his literary capacity and his wardrobe. The Bohemians 
should then communicate their individual impressions to 
one another, and thereafter pass upon the question of 
admission or rejection : furthermore, before being ad- 
mitted, Carolus should submit to a novitiate of one 
month, that is to say, he should not, before the expira- 
tion of that time, be entitled to use the familiar form of 
address to them, or to take their arms in the street. 
When the day of his final admission arrived, a magnifi- 
cent fete should be given at the expense of the new 
member. The bill for the fete should not be less than 
twelve francs.” 

This amendment was adopted by three votes against 
one, the negative vote being cast by Colline, who con- 
sidered that they did not rely sufficiently upon him, and 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


*97 

that the amendment was a renewed reflection upon his 
prudence. 

That evening Colline went very early to the caf£, for 
the purpose of being the first to meet Carolus. 

He had not long to wait. Carolus soon arrived, with 
three enormous bouquets of roses in his hands. 

“ Well, well ! ” exclaimed Colline in amazement ; 
“what do you intend to do with that flower-garden?” 

“ I remembered what you told me yesterday ; your 
friends will come with their lady friends, I doubt not, 
and I have brought these flowers for them ; they are 
very beautiful.” 

“Yes, there must be at least fifteen sous’ worth.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” retorted Carolus ; “ in the month 
of December you had better say fifteen francs.” 

“ Heavens and earth ! ” cried Colline ; “ a trio of five- 
franc pieces for those simple gifts of Flora — what folly ! 
You must be related to the Cordillieres ? Well, my 
dear monsieur, there are fifteen francs that we shall be 
obliged to toss out of the window.” 

“What ! what do you mean? ” 

Colline thereupon told him of the jealous suspicions 
Marcel had planted in the minds of his friends, and de- 
scribed the vehement discussion that had taken place 
among the Bohemians on the subject of his admission 
into the club. “ I declared that your intentions were 
unexceptionable,” added Colline, “but the opposition 
was none the less keen for that. Be careful, therefore, 


198 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


not to revive the jealous suspicions which they have con- 
ceived of you by being too gallant to the ladies ; and, 
to begin with, let us put these bouquets out of sight.” 

He took the roses and concealed them in a cupboard 
for rubbish. 

“ But that isn’t all,” he continued ; “ those gentlemen 
desire, before entering into intimate relations with you, 
to make an investigation, each on his own account, as 
to your character, your tastes, etc.” 

Thereupon, in order that Barbemuche might not tread 
too heavily upon his friends’ toes, Colline drew a 
rapid moral sketch of each of the Bohemians. “Try to 
agree with them separately,” added the philosopher, 
“and in the end they will all be on your side.” 

Carolus agreed to everything. 

The three friends soon arrived, accompanied by their 
sweethearts. 

Rodolphe was courteous to Carolus, Schaunard fa- 
miliar, Marcel maintained a cool demeanor. As for Ca- 
rolus himself, he exerted himself to be jovial and engaging 
with the men and very indifferent to the women. 

When they separated for the night, Barbemuche 
asked Rodolphe to dinner the next day. But he re- 
quested him to come to his house at noon. 

The poet accepted. 

“Good,” he said to himself; “ I am the one to begin 
the investigation.” 

The next day, at the appointed hour, Rodolphe re- 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


l 99 


paired to Barbemuche’s abode. He lived in a very- 
handsome mansion on Rue Royale, and occupied a room 
very comfortably furnished. But Rodolphe was aston- 
ished to find the shutters closed, curtains drawn, and 
two candles lighted on a table, although it was broad 
day. He asked Barbemuche to explain. 

“ Study is the daughter of mystery and silence,” he 
replied. 

They sat down and talked. After an hour’s conversa- 
tion, Carolus, with infinite patience and oratorical skill, 
succeeded in leading up to a phrase which, despite its 
harmless form, was neither more nor less than a demand 
upon Rodolphe to listen to a little work which was the 
fruit of the aforesaid Carolus’s vigils. 

Rodolphe realized that he was caught. And having 
some curiosity to see the color of Barbemuche’s style, he 
bowed politely, assuring him that he was enchanted to — ” 

Carolus did not wait for him to finish his sentence. 
He ran to the door, turned the key and returned to Ro- 
dolphe. He then took out a small bundle of papers, 
whose diminutive size and thinness brought a smile of 
satisfaction to the poet’s face. 

“ Is that the manuscript of your work? ” he asked. 

“ No,” said Carolus, “ this is the catalogue of my 
manuscripts and I am looking for the number of the 
one you deign to allow me to read to you. Here it is : 
Don Lopez , or Fatality , number 14. It’s on the third 
shelf,” he added, and he opened a small closet in which 


200 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Rodolphe observed with dismay a great quantity of man- 
uscripts. Carolus selected one, closed the closet and 
seated himself facing the poet. 

Rodolphe cast a glance at one of the four bundles 
which made up the work, written on sheets of the size 
of the Champ de Mars. 

“ It’s not in verse ,” he said to himself, “ but it is 
called Don Lopez ! ” 

Carolus took up the first bundle and began thus : 

“ On a cold night in winter two horsemen, wrapped 
in the folds of their cloaks and mounted upon slothful 
mules, were riding side by side along one of the roads 
that traverse the terrifying solitude of the Sierra Morena.” 

“Where am I ?” thought Rodolphe, aghast at this 
beginning. Carolus read on to the end of the first 
chapter, written in the same style throughout. 

Rodolphe listened vaguely and thought about finding 
some means of escape. 

“There’s the window,” he said, “but it’s fastened, 
and we are on the fourth floor, in addition. Ah ! I un- 
derstand all his precautions now.” 

“What do you say to my first chapter?” Carolus 
inquired; “don’t be sparing of your criticism, I beg.” 

Rodolphe thought that he remembered hearing 
snatches of declamatory philosophy concerning suicide, 
put forward by one Lopez, the hero of the novel, so he 
took the risk and answered as follows : 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


201 


“The main figure, Don Lopez, is conscientiously 
worked out ; it reminds one of the Savoyard Vicads Pro- 
fession of Faith ; the description of Don Alvar’s mule 
pleases me beyond measure ; one would say it was a 
sketch by G6ricault. The description of the landscape 
contains some fine lines ; as for your ideas, they are J. J. 
Rousseau’s seed sown in Lesage’s soil. But allow me to 
make one comment. You put in too many commas and 
you abuse dorenava7it — henceforth — ; it’s a very pretty 
word that does well enough now and then ; it gives color 
to the narrative, but it ought not to be abused.” 

Carolus took up the second bundle and reread the 
title, Don Lopez , or Fatality. 

“ I once knew a Don Lopez,” said Rodolphe ; “ he 
sold cigarettes and Bayonne chocolate, perhaps he was 
a relation of your man. Go on.” 

At the end of the second chapter the poet interrupted 
Carolus. 

“ Doesn’t your throat feel rather lame? ” he asked. 

“ Not in the least,” replied Carolus ; “you are about 
to hear In£sille’s story.” 

“ I am very much interested. But if you are tired,” 
said the poet, “you must not think of — ” 

“ Chapter III ! ” said Carolus in a clear voice. 

Rodolphe examined him closely and noticed that he 
had a very short neck and a high color. “ I have one 
hope left,” he said to himself after he had made that 
discovery : “ apoplexy.” 


202 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“We will go on to Chapter IV. You will be kind 
enough to tell me what you think of the love scene.” 

And Carolus resumed his reading. 

As he glanced at Rodolphe, seeking to read in his 
face the effect produced by the dialogue, Carolus saw 
the poet leaning forward in his chair with his head in 
the attitude of a man listening to distant sounds. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. 

“Hush!” said Rodolphe; “don’t you hear? It 
seems to me somebody is crying fire ! Suppose we go 
and see? ” 

Carolus listened a moment but heard nothing. 

“ It must have been a ringing in my ears,” said Ro- 
dolphe : “ go on ; Don Alvar interests me immensely ; 
he’s a noble youth.” 

Carolus read on and put all the music of his voice 
into this sentence spoken by the young Don Alvar : 

“ O In6sille, whoever you may be, angel or demon, 
and whatever your native land, my life is yours, and I 
will follow you, whether it be to heaven or to hell 1 ” 

At that moment there was a knock at the door and a 
voice outside called Carolus. 

“ It’s my concierge,” he said, partly opening his door. 

It was in truth the concierge ; he brought a letter ; 
Carolus opened it hurriedly. — “ How unfortunate,” he 
exclaimed ; “ we shall have to postpone the reading to 
another time ; I have received news which requires me 
to go out at once.” 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


203 

“Ah!” thought Rodolphe, “ that letter fell from 
Heaven ; I recognize the seal of Providence.” 

“ If you choose,” continued Carolus, “ we will take 
the walk together which this letter compels me to take, 
and then we will go to dinner.” 

“ I am at your service,” said Rodolphe. 

That evening, when he appeared at the club, the poet 
was questioned by his friends on the subject of Barbe- 
muche. 

“ Are you satisfied with him ? Did he treat you well ? ” 
said Marcel and Schaunard. 

“Yes, but it cost me dear,” said Rodolphe. 

“How so? Can it be that Carolus made you pay?” 
demanded Schaunard with growing indignation. 

“ He read me a novel, in whose insides people are 
called Don Lopez and Don Alvar and in which the 
jeunes premiers call their mistresses Angel or Demon A 

“What a ghastly thing!” exclaimed all the Bohe- 
mians in chorus. 

“Butin other respects,” said Colline, “aside from 
literature, what is your opinion concerning Carolus?” 

“ He’s an excellent young man. However, you can 
make your observations for yourselves : Carolus expects 
to entertain us all one after another. Schaunard is in- 
vited to breakfast to-morrow. But when you go to 
Barbemuche’s, beware of the closet of manuscripts ; it’s 
a dangerous piece of furniture.” 

Schaunard was on hand promptly at the appointed 


204 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


time, and devoted himself to a scrutiny worthy of a pro- 
fessional appraiser or of a bailiff making a levy. Conse- 
quently he returned at night with his mind filled with 
memoranda; he had studied Carolus from the stand- 
point of personal effects. 

“Well,” he was asked, “ what is your opinion ? ” 

“Why, this Barbemuche is moulded of good qualities,” 
Schaunard replied ; “ he knows the names of all kinds 
of wines and gave me delicious things to eat, such as I 
don’t get at my aunt’s on her birthday. He seems to 
me to be on reasonably intimate terms with tailors on 
Rue Vivienne and bootmakers on Les Panoramas. I 
noticed furthermore, that he was of about the same 
figure as all four of us, so that at need we can lend him 
our coats. His morals are less stern than Colline under- 
took to tell us ; he let me take him wherever I chose, 
and paid for a breakfast in two acts, the second of which 
took place in a wine-shop at the market, where I am 
well-known through having taken part in divers orgies 
there during the Carnival. Carolus went in there like 
any ordinary mortal. There you are ! Marcel is in- 
vited for to-morrow.” 

Carolus knew that Marcel was the one who was most 
opposed to his admission to the club ; and so he treated 
him with particular attention ; but he won the artist’s 
good-will chiefly by giving him reason to hope that he 
could procure him a chance to paint some portraits in 
his pupil’s family. 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


205 


When it was Marcel’s turn to report, his friends no 
longer detected that preconceived hostility which he had 
exhibited against Carolus at first. 

On the fourth day Colline informed Barbemuche that 
he was admitted. 

“What! I am admitted?” exclaimed Carolus, de- 
lighted' beyond measure. 

“Yes,” replied Colline, “but only on probation.” 

“What do you mean by that? ” 

“ I mean that you still have a heap of little vulgar 
ways that you will have to correct.” 

“ I will do my best to copy you,” rejoined Carolus. 

During the whole period of his novitiate, the Platonist 
philosopher assiduously sought the society of the Bohe- 
mians ; and having set about studying their manners more 
closely than before, he was sometimes tremendously as- 
tonished. 

One morning Colline called upon Barbemuche with a 
radiant countenance. 

“Well, my dear fellow,” he said, “you are one of us 
now for good and all; it’s decided. It only remains 
now to fix upon the day for the great fete and the place 
where it is to come off ; I have come to talk it over with 
you.” 

“Why, it happens as opportunely as possible,” re- 
plied Carolus ; “ my pupil’s parents are in the country 
just at this moment ; the young viscount whose mentor 
I am, will lend me the apartments for one evening ; in 


2o6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


that way we shall be more at our ease ; only we must 
invite the young viscount.” 

“That would be most delightful,” replied Colline j 
“ we will open vast literary horizons to him ; but do you 
think he will consent?” 

“ I am sure of it beforehand.” 

“Then we have only to fix the day.” 

“We will arrange that this evening at the caf£,” said 
Barbemuche. 

Carolus thereupon sought his pupil and informed him 
that he had been chosen a member of a first-rate artistic 
and literary society, and that, to celebrate his reception, 
he proposed to give a dinner-party followed by a little 
fete ; he proposed to him to be one of the guests : 

“ And as you cannot be out late and the fete will be 
prolonged into the night,” added Carolus, “we will give 
the little party here, in the apartments. Francois, your 
servant, is close-mouthed, your parents will know noth- 
ing about it, and you will have made the acquaintance 
of the cleverest people in Paris, artists and authors.” 

“Are their works printed? ” queried the young man. 

“ Printed, certainly ; one of them is editor-in-chief of 
E Echarpe d' Iris, which madame your mother takes. 
They are very distinguished people, almost famous ; I 
am their intimate friend ; they have charming wives.” 

“ Will there be women ? ” asked Vicomte Paul. 

“ Fascinating ones,” replied Carolus. 

“ O my dear master, I thank you ; certainly we will 


A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


207 

give the fete here ; vve will light all the chandeliers and 
I will have the covers taken off the furniture.” 

That evening at the caf£, Barbemuche announced that 
the party would be given on the following Saturday. 

The Bohemians requested their mistresses to look to 
their toilets. 

“ Do not forget,” they said, “that we are going into 
real salons. So make your preparations accordingly; 
simple costumes, but rich.” 

From and after that day the whole street was aware 
that Mesdemoiselles Mimi, Phemie and Musette were go- 
ing into society. 

On the morning of this ceremony, this is what took 
place : Colline, Schaunard, Marcel and Rodolphe betook 
themselves in a body to Barbemuche’s, who seemed as- 
tonished to see them so early. 

“ Has any accident happened which will necessitate 
the postponement of the fete?” he asked with some 
disquietude. 

“Yes and no,” replied Colline. “This is how it is. 
Between ourselves, we never stand on ceremony ; but 
when we are to be with strangers, we wish to maintain a 
certain amount of decorum.” 

“Well?” said Barbemuche. 

“Well,” continued Colline, “as we are to meet the 
young gentleman this evening who throws open these 
salons to us, out of respect to him, as well as to our- 
selves, whom our somewhat informal costumes might 


208 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


compromise, we have come to ask you if you could lend 
us, just for this evening, a few garments of a becoming 
cut. It is almost impossible for us, as you must under- 
stand, to enter these sumptuous halls in coarse blouses and 
jackets.” 

“ But I haven’t four dress coats,” said Carolus. 

“ Oh ! we will make shift with what you have.” 

“Well, look,” said Carolus, opening a well-supplied 
wardrobe.” 

“Why, you have a complete arsenal of fine things.” 

“ Three hats ! ” said Schaunard in rapt admiration ; 
“can a man have three hats when he has only one 
head? ” 

“And the boots,” said Rodolphe, “look at them ! ” 

“There are stacks of them ! ” shouted Colline." 

In a twinkling, each of them had selected a complete 
outfit. 

“Until this evening,” they said as they took their 
leave of Barbemuche ; “ the ladies propose to be daz- 
zlingly beautiful.” 

“But you have left nothing for me,” said Barbe- 
muche, glancing into the wardrobe which was completely 
stripped. “How am I to receive you? ” 

“Oh! it’s different with you,” said Rodolphe, “you’re 
the master of the house ; you can lay etiquette aside.” 

“ But there’s nothing left but a dressing-gown, a pair 
of drawers with feet, a flannel waistcoat and slippers ; 
you have taken everything.” 


adapter XI5 


The fete began with renewed animation. Schaunard 
took his seat at the piano and performed with prodigious 
energy his new symphony , the Young Girl’s Death. The 
beautiful piece called the Creditor’s March had the honor 
of being twice encored. Two of the cords of the piano 
were broken. 


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A RECEPTION IN BOHEMIA 


209 

“What does it matter? we excuse you in advance/’ 
replied the Bohemians. 

At six o’clock a very handsome dinner was served in 
the dining-room. The Bohemians arrived. Marcel 
limped a little and was in very bad humor. Young Vi- 
comte Paul rushed to meet the ladies and escorted them 
to the best seats. Mimi wore a most fantastic costume. 
Musette was dressed with good taste overflowing with 
seductiveness. Ph£mie resembled a window filled with 
colored glasses ; she dared not sit down ,at the table. 
The dinner lasted two hours and a half and was delight- 
fully gay. 

Young Vicomte Paul trod furiously on Mimi’s foot, — 
she was sitting next him, — and Ph£mie asked to be 
helped twice to something in every course. Schaunard 
was in clover. Rodolphe improvised sonnets and 
marked time by breaking glasses. Colline was talking 
with Marcel, who was still sulky. 

“What’s the matter? ” he asked. 

“ My feet hurt me horribly, and it vexes me. That 
Carolus has a foot like a society woman.” 

“ But all we have to do,” said Colline, “ is to make 
him understand that things can’t go on so, and that in 
future he must have his footwear made a few sizes wider ; 
I’ll arrange it, never fear. But let us adjourn to the 
salon, whither the Curagoa summons us.” 

The fete began with renewed animation. Schaunard 
took his seat at the piano and performed with prodigious 
T 4 , 


210 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


energy his new symphony, the Young Girl's Death. 
The beautiful piece called the Creditor's March had the 
honor of being twice encored. Two of the chords of 
the piano were broken. 

Marcel was still sullen, and when Carolus remon- 
strated with him, the artist replied : 

“My dear monsieur, we shall never be intimate 
friends, for this reason. Physical dissimilarities are an 
almost certain indication of moral dissimilarity ; philos- 
ophy and medicine agree in that.” 

“What then?” said Carolus. 

“Why,” said Marcel, pointing to his feet, “your 
boots, which are much too narrow for me, prove to me 
that our characters are dissimilar : however, your little 
party has been delightful.” 

At one in the morning the Bohemians took their leave 
and returned home, making long detours. Barbemuche 
was ill and delivered wild harangues to his pupil, who, 
for his part, dreamed of Mademoiselle Mimi’s blue eyes. 


XIII 

THE HOUSE-WARMING 

This took place some time after Rodolphe the poet, 
and young Mademoiselle Mimi had set up housekeeping 
together, and for about a week the whole club of Bohe- 
mians had been much concerned because of Rodolphe’ s 
disappearance, he having suddenly become invisible. 
They had looked for him in all the places he was in the 
habit of frequenting, and received the same reply every- 
where : 

* “We haven’t seen him for a week.” 

Gustave Colline, especially, was sorely troubled, and 
for this reason : Some days before, he had placed in 
Rodolphe’s hands a philosophical article which he was 
to insert in the Varietes columns of the newspaper Le 
Castor , a review devoted to the interests of the fashion- 
able hat trade, of which Rodolphe was editor-in-chief. 
Had that philosophical article appeared before the eyes 
of awe-struck Europe? Such was the question that the 
unfortunate Colline asked himself, and the reader will 

understand how anxiously he asked it, when he is in- 
(211) 


212 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


formed that the philosopher, had never yet had the 
honor of being printed,, and that he was consumed by 
the desire to' see what effect would be produced by his 
prose set in, pica. To bestow that gratification upon 
his self-esteem, he had already expended six, francs for 
reading privileges in all' the literary salons of Paris, with- 
out falling in' with Le Castor. Unable to restrain him- 
self longer,. Colline swore that he would not take a 
minute’s rest until he had placed his hand upon the 
vanished editor of that sheet. 

Assisted by happy accidents which it would take too 
long to describe, the philosopher kept his word. Two 
days later he was acquainted with Rodolphe’s domicile, 
and he called’ upon him' at six o’clock in the morn- 
ing. 

Rodolphe was then living in furnished lodgings on a 
deserted' street in- Faubourg Saint-Germain, and he lived 
on the fifth floor because there was no sixth. When: 
Colline reached the door he found no key. He knocked 
for ten minutes without obtaining any reply from within ; 
such an uproar so early in the morning at last attracted 
the attention' of the concierge, who came up and re- 
quested Colline to be quiet. 

“You see that the gentleman’s asleep,” he said: 

“That’s why I propose to wake him,” replied Colline, 
knocking with renewed vigor. 

“ He doesn’t propose to answer you, then,” rejoined 
the concierge, depositing at Rodolphe’s door a pair of 


THE HOUSE-WARMING 


213 


men’s boots and women’s shoes which he had just pol- 
ished. 

“Just wait a moment,” said Colline, scrutinizing the 
male and female footwear ; “ polished boots and new ! I 
must have mistaken the door ; I have no business here.” 

“Whom are you looking for?” the concierge inquired. 

“ Women’s boots ! ” continued Colline, speaking to 
himself, and reflecting upon his friend’s austere morals ; 
“ yes, I certainly have made a mistake. This isn’t Ro- 
dolphe’s room.” 

“ Excuse me, monsieur, but it is.” 

“ Why, then, you have made a mistake, my good man.” 

“ What do you mean? ” 

“ Certainly you have made a mistake,” said Colline, 
pointing to the boots. “ What are those? ” 

“ Those are Monsieur Rodolphe’s boots ; what is there 
strange about that?” 

“And those,” continued Colline, pointing to the 
shoes, “are those Monsieur Rodolphe’s, too?” 

“ Those are his lady’s,” said the concierge. 

“ His lady’s ! ” exclaimed Colline, dumfounded. “ Ah ! 
the sybarite ! that’s why he won’t open the door.” 

“ Surely,” said the concierge, “ the young man’s his 
own master ; if monsieur will tell me his name, I will 
tell Monsieur Rodolphe.” 

“ No,” said Colline ; “ now that I know where to find 
him, I will come again.” And he at once went off to 
tell his friends the great news. 


214 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Rodolphe’s new boots were generally treated as a 
fable attributable to the wealth of Colline’s imagination, 
and it was unanimously agreed that his mistress was a 
paradox. 

The paradox was a truth, however, for that same even- 
ing Marcel received a letter intended for the whole 
club. The letter was thus conceived : 

“ Monsieur and Madame Rodolphe, literati, request 
the honor of your company to dinner to-morrow evening 
at five o’clock precisely. 

“ No B. — There will be plates.” 

“ Messieurs,” said Marcel, going to communicate the 
contents of the letter to his comrades, “ the news is con- 
firmed : Rodolphe really has a mistress ; furthermore, 
he invites us to dinner, and,” continued Marcel, “ the 
postscript promises plates. I tell you frankly that that 
paragraph seems to me like poetical exaggeration ; 
however, we shall see.” 

The next day, at the appointed hour, Marcel, Gustave 
Colline and Alexandre Schaunard, as hungry as the last 
day of Lent, repaired to Rodolphe’s apartments and 
found him playing with a yellow cat, while a young 
woman was setting the table. 

“ Messieurs,” said Rodolphe, pressing the hands of 
his friends and pointing to the young woman, “ allow me 
to present you to the mistress of this establishment.” 


THE HOUSE-WARMING 


2I 5 

“You are the establishment, are you not?” said Col- 
line, who had a sort of leprosy of such jokes. 

“ Mimi, these are my best friends, and now go and 
prepare the soup,” said Rodolphe. 

“O, madame ! ” said Alexandre Schaunard, rushing at 
Mimi, “ you are as fresh as a wild flower.” 

Having convinced himself that there really were plates 
on the table, Schaunard began to make inquiries as to 
what they were to have to eat. He even carried his 
curiosity so far as to raise the lids of the saucepans in 
which the dinner was cooking. The presence of a 
lobster made a lively impression upon him. 

Colline, meanwhile, had taken Rodolphe aside to ask 
about his philosophical article. 

“ My dear fellow, it’s at the printer’s. Le Castor 
appears next Thursday.” 

We will not undertake to depict the philosopher’s joy. 

“ Messieurs,” said Rodolphe to his friends, “ I ask 
your pardon for having left you so long without news of 
me, but I was enjoying my honeymoon.” And he told 
the story of his marriage to the charming creature who 
had brought him as her marriage portion her eighteen 
years and six months, two porcelain cups and a yellow 
cat, called Mimi, like herself. 

“And now, messieurs,” said Rodolphe, “we propose 
to have a house-warming. I warn you, however, that 
we are going to have a very bourgeois repast ; truflles 
will be replaced by the heartiest cordiality.” 


2l6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


In truth, that amiable goddess did not cease for a 
moment to hold sway among the guests, who agreed, 
moreover, that the so-called frugal repast did not lack a 
certain delicacy. Rodolphe had, in fact, gone to some 
expense. Colline noticed that the plates were changed, 
and he remarked aloud that Mademoiselle Mimi deserved 
the azure scarf with which the empresses of the oven 
are decorated, — a phrase which was perfect Sanscrit to 
the girl, and which Rodolphe translated by telling her 
“ that she would make an excellent cordon bleu” 

The entrance of the lobster aroused general admira- 
tion. On the pretext that he had studied natural his- 
tory, Schaunard asked leave to dissect it ; he took ad- 
vantage of the privilege by breaking a knife and allotting 
to himself the largest share, thereby inciting universal in- 
dignation. But Schaunard had no self-esteem, especially 
where lobsters were concerned, and as there was a piece 
left over, he had the impudence to put it aside, saying 
that it would be useful to him as a model for a picture 
of still nature on which he was at work. His indulgent 
friends pretended to believe that falsehood, born of 
immoderate gluttony. 

As for Colline, he reserved his sympathies for his 
dessert, and cruelly persisted in his refusal to exchange 
his share of gateau au rhum for a ticket of admission to 
the orangery at Versailles which Schaunard offered 
him. 

About that time the conversation was growing ani- 


THE HOUSE-WARMING 


217 


mated. The three bottles of red seal were succeeded by 
three bottles of green seal, among which they soon no- 
ticed a bottle, which was recognized by the silver cap 
surmounting its neck, as a soldier in the regiment of 
Royal- Champenois, a supposititious champagne brewed 
in the vineyards of Saint Ouen, and sold at Paris for two 
francs a bottle, because of the winding up of the con- 
cern, so the dealer claimed. 

But it is not the province that makes the wine, and 
our Bohemians accepted as genuine A 1 the liquor which 
was served to them in glasses provided therefor; and 
despite the slight eagerness to escape from its prison 
displayed by the cork, they went into ecstasies over the 
delicacy of the flavor when they saw the quantity of 
foam. • Schaunard employed what little self-control he 
still possessed in making a mistake as to his glass and 
taking Colline’s, while that gentleman was gravely 
dipping his biscuit in the mustard, as he explained to 
Mademoiselle Mimi the philosophical article which was 
to appear in Le Castor ; suddenly he turned pale and 
asked leave to go to the window and look at the sunset, 
although it was ten o’clock and the sun had long been 
abed and asleep. 

“ It’s a great pity the champagne isn’t frozen,” said 
Schaunard, still trying to substitute his empty glass for 
his neighbor’s full one, but without success. 

“ Madame,” said Colline, returning from taking the 
air, to Mimi, “ champagne is frozen with ice, ice is 


2l8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


formed by the condensation of water, in Latin aqua . 
Frozen water is two degrees above zero, and there are 
four seasons, summer, autumn and winter ; that is what 
caused the retreat from Russia ; Rodolphe, give me a dis- 
tich of champagne.” 

“ What’s that your friend says ? ” Mimi asked Rodolphe, 
as she was utterly unable to understand Colline. 

“ That’s a joke,” he replied; “ Colline means half a 
glass.” 

Suddenly Colline brought his hand down on Rodolphe’s 
shoulder, and said in a thick voice, as if the syllables 
were set in paste : 

“To-morrow’s Thursday, isn’t it?” 

“No,” said Rodolphe, “to-morrow’s Sunday.” 

“No, Thursday.” 

“No, I tell you once more, to-morrow’s Sunday.” 

“Ah ! Sunday,” said Colline, wagging his head, “to- 
morrow’s generally Thursday.” 

And he fell asleep, making a cast of his face in the 
cream cheese that was on his plate. 

“What’s he talking about with his Thursday?” said 
Marcel. 

“ Ah ! I understand now,” said Rodolphe, beginning 
to comprehend the persistence of the philosopher, pos- 
sessed as he was by his fixed idea ; it’s on account of 
his article in Le Castor — Listen, he’s dreaming out loud.” 

“Good ! ” said Schaunard, “he can’t have any coffee, 
can he, madame? ” 


THE HOUSE-WARMING 


219 


“ By the way,” said Rodolphe,“ serve the coffee, Mimi.” 

She was about to rise, when Colline, who had recovered 
his senses to some extent, caught her by the waist and 
whispered confidentially in her ear : 

“ Madame, coffee originally came from Arabia, where 
it was discovered by a goat. In due time it came to be 
used in Europe. Voltaire used to drink seventy-two 
cups a day. For my part, I like it without sugar, but I 
take it very hot.” 

“ Great God ! how much that gentleman knows ! ” 
thought Mimi, as she brought coffee and pipes. 

Meanwhile it was growing late ; twelve o’clock had 
struck long before, and Rodolphe tried to make his 
friends understand that it was time to retire. Marcel, who 
had retained perfect control of his faculties, rose to go. 

But Schaunard noticed that there was still some eau- 
de-vie in one bottle, and declared that it would not be 
twelve o’clock so long as there was any liquor left. Col- 
line was sitting astride his chair and muttering under his 
breath : 

“ Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday.” 

“ Deuce take it ! ” said Rodolphe, sorely perplexed, 
“ I can’t keep them here all night ; in the old days it 
was well enough; but now it’s a different matter,” he 
added, looking at Mimi, whose glance, slightly inflamed, 
seemed to demand solitude a deux . 

“What am I to do? Advise me a little, Marcel. 
Invent something to get them away.” 


220 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“No, I will not invent,” said Marcel, “but I will 
copy. I remember a comedy in which a clever valet 
finds a way to turn out of his master’s rooms three 
rascals as drunk as Silenus.” 

“I remember that,” said Rodolphe, “it’s in Kean. 
The situation is really very much the same.” 

“Well,” said Marcel, “we’ll see if the stage is na- 
ture. Wait a bit, we’ll begin with Schaunard. I say ! 
Schaunard ! ” cried the painter. 

“Hallo! what’s the matter?” replied Schaunard, 
who seemed to be swimming in the blue sea of mild 
intoxication. 

“ There’s nothing more to drink and we’re all 
thirsty.” 

“Ah! yes,” said Schaunard, “those bottles — they’re 
so small ! ” 

“Well,” continued Marcel, “ Rodolphe has decided 
that we are to pass the night here ; but we must go and 
get something before the shops are closed.” 

“ My grocer lives at the corner of the street,” said 
Rodolphe. “ Just go there, Schaunard, will you ? Get 
two bottles of rum on my account.” 

“ Oh ! yes, oh ! yes, oh ! yes,” said Schaunard, mak- 
ing a mistake in the matter of overcoats, and taking 
that of Colline, who was making squares on the table- 
cloth with his knife. 

“One!” said Marcel, when Schaunard had gone. 
“ And now for Colline ; that will be harder. I have an 


THE HOUSE-WARMING 


221 


idea ! — I say, I say ! Colline ! ” he exclaimed, shaking 
the philosopher violently. 

“ What ? — what ? — what? ” 

“ Schaunard has gone and has taken your nut-brown 
coat by mistake.” 

Colline looked around and saw, in the place where his 
garment had been, Schaunard’s short plaid coat. A 
sudden thought passed through his brain and filled it 
with unrest. Colline had been about among the old 
book-shops that day, as usual, and had purchased for 
fifteen sous a Finnish grammar and a little novel by Mon- 
sieur Nisard, entitled ; The Milkmaid' s Funeral. In 
addition to those recent acquisitions, there were in his 
pockets seven or eight volumes of the higher philosophy 
which he always had about him, in order to have an 
arsenal from which to provide himself with arguments 
in case of a philosophical discussion. The thought that 
that collection was in Schaunard’s hands gave him a cold 
sweat. 

“ The wretch ! ” cried Colline, “why did he take my 
coat? ” 

“ It was a mistake.” 

“ But my books — He may make a bad use of them.” 

“ Don’t be afraid, he won’t read : them,” said Ro- 
dolphe. 

“ True, but I know him, you see ; he’s quite capable 
of lighting his pipe with them.” 

“ If you are worried about them, you can overtake 


222 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


him,” said Rodolphe ; “ he has just gone out ; you’ll 
find him at the door.” 

“ Certainly I will overtake him,” said Colline, put- 
ting on his hat, the brim of which was so broad that tea 
for ten persons could easily have been served upon it. 

“Two,” said Marcel to Rodolphe ; “ now you are free, 
for I am going, and I will tell the concierge not to open 
the door if any one knocks.” 

“Good-night,” said Rodolphe, “and thanks.” 

As he showed his friend out, Rodolphe heard on 
the stairs a prolonged miauling, to which his yellow 
cat replied by a similar cry, and tried slyly to escape 
through the half-open door. 

“ Poor Romeo ! ” said Rodolphe, “ there’s his Juliet 
calling him ; off with you ! ” he said, opening the door 
for the lovelorn beast who made but one leap from the 
landing into his sweetheart’s arms. 

Left alone with his mistress, who was standing before 
her mirror, curling her hair, in a charmingly seductive 
attitude, Rodolphe approached her and took her in 
his arms. Then, as a musician, before beginning his 
performance, strikes a series of chords to test the condi- 
tion of his instrument, Rodolphe took the youthful Mimi 
on his knees, and bestowed upon her shoulder a long, 
resonant kiss, which imparted a sudden vibration to the 
budding creature’s body. 

The instrument was in tune. 


XIV 

MADEMOISELLE MIMI 

0 my friend Rodolphe, what has happened, pray, that 
you are so changed? Must I believe the reports that 
come to my ears, and has the disaster that has befallen 
you crushed so completely your robust philosophy? How 
can I, the historian in ordinary of your Bohemian epic, 
so full of joyous laughter — how can I command a suffi- 
ciently melancholy tone in which to narrate the painful 
adventure that has forced your never-failing cheerfulness 
to don mourning garb, and has thus suddenly arrested 
the tinkling of your paradoxes ? 

O Rodolphe, my friend ! I grant you that it is a sad 
catastrophe, but, in truth, there is no occasion to go and 
throw yourself into the water. And so I urge you to 
cross out the past as speedily as possible. Avoid, above 
all things, solitude peopled with phantoms, which would 
make your regrets everlasting. Avoid the silence, where 
the echoes of memory would still be full of your past 
joys and sorrows. Bravely throw to all the winds of 
oblivion the name you have loved so dearly, and with it, 

(223) 


224 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


all that you still retain of her who bore it. Locks of hair 
bitten by the frenzied lips of desire ; phial of Venetian 
glass, wherein still sleeps a breath of perfume which 
would be more dangerous for you to inhale at this mo- 
ment than all the poisons on earth ; into the fire with 
the flowers, the flowers of gauze and silk and velvet ; the 
white jasmine ; the anemones empurpled by Adonis’s 
blood, the blue myosotis and all the lovely bouquets she 
fashioned in the far-off days of your short-lived happi- 
ness. For, you see, I, too, loved your Mimi, and I saw 
no danger in your loving her. But follow my advice ; 
into the fire with the ribbons, the pretty pink and blue 
and yellow ribbons of which she made necklaces to be- 
guile the eye ; into the fire with the laces and caps and 
veils and all the coquettish finery in which she arrayed 
herself to go and make love mathematically with Mon- 
sieur C£sar, Monsieur Jerome, Monsieur Charles or any 
other gallant in the calendar, when you were waiting for 
her at your window, shivering in the icy blasts of winter ; 
into the fire pitilessly, Rodolphe, with everything that 
belonged to her and might still speak to you of her ; 
into the fire with the /^-letters. See, here is one of 
them, and you wept over it like a fountain, O my luck- 
less friend ! 

“As you don’t come home, I am going out to my 
aunt’s ; I take what money there is here to hire a cab. — 

“ Lucile.” 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


225 


And that evening, O Rodolphe, you did not dine, do 
you remember? and you came to see me and discharged 
a brilliant collection of witticisms which bore witness to 
the tranquillity of your mind. For you thought that Lu- 
cile was at her aunt’s, and if I had told you that she was 
at Monsieur Cesar’s, or with an actor from the Montpar- 
nasse, you would certainly have tried to cut my throat. 
Into the fire, too, with this other note, which has all the 
laconic sweetness of the first : 

“ I am going to order some boots, and you absolutely 
must find the money for me to go and get them the day 
after to-morrow.” 

Ah ! my friend, those boots danced many quadrilles 
when you were not their vis-a-vis. To the flames with 
all these souvenirs, and throw their ashes to the winds. 

But, first of all, O Rodolphe, for the love of humanity 
and the good name of L } Echarpe d’ Iris and Le Castor , 
resume the reins of good taste which you have let fall 
during your selfish suffering, or else horrible things may 
happen, for which you will be responsible. We shall re- 
turn to leg-of-mutton sleeves and trousers with flaps, and 
some day there will come a fashion in hats which will 
make the universe weep and call down the wrath of 
Heaven. 

And now the proper moment has arrived to tell the 
story of our friend Rodolphe’s amours with Mademoiselle 
Lucile, otherwise called Mademoiselle Mimi. It was 
i5 


226 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


just as he was turning his twenty-fourth year that Ro- 
dolphe was suddenly stricken to the heart by that pas- 
sion which had a great influence over his life. At the 
time he fell in with Mimi, Rodolphe was leading that 
fantastic hand-to-mouth existence which we have tried to 
describe in the preceding scenes of this series. He was 
certainly one of the cheeriest children of misfortune to 
be found in the land of Bohemia. And when during the 
day he had had a wretched dinner and made a witty re- 
mark, he walked more proudly over the pavement that 
often was near being his bed, more proudly in his black 
coat, crying for quarter through all its seams, than an 
emperor in his purple robe. In the circle in which Ro- 
dolphe lived they pretended, — a common affectation 
among some young men — to treat love as a luxury, a 
pretext for playing pranks. Gustave Colline, who had 
long had relations with a maker of waistcoats, whom he 
had deformed in body and mind by dint of making her 
copy his philosophical manuscripts night and day, main- 
tained that love was a sort of purgative, a good thing to 
take every spring to rid himself of humors. Among all 
those false sceptics, Rodolphe alone dared speak of love 
with some show of reverence ; and when they were un- 
lucky enough to allow him to get started on that strain, he 
was good for an hour of purring elegiacs concerning the 
joy of being loved, the azure surface of the tranquil lake, 
the song of the breeze, the concert of the stars, etc. 
This mania had caused him to be dubbed the harmonica 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


227 


by Schaunard. Marcel also had made a very pretty quip 
on that theme, in which, alluding to Rodolphe’s senti- 
mental, Germanic tirades, as well as to his premature 
baldness, he called him the bald myosotis. The real 
truth was this : Rodolphe seriously believed at that 
time that he had done with youth and love ; he boldly 
chanted the De Profundis over his heart, which he be- 
lieved to be dead, when it was simply resting, but ready 
to awake, easily moved to enjoyment, and more sus- 
ceptible than ever to all the cherished sorrows which it 
no longer hoped for, and which drive it to despair to- 
day. You would have it so, O Rodolphe ! and we will 
not pity you, for the disease from which you are suffer- 
ing is of those which we most eagerly desire, especially 
if we know that we are cured of it forever. 

So Rodolphe met young Mimi, whom he had known 
previously when she was the mistress of one of his 
friends, and he made her his mistress. There was a great 
outcry among Rodolphe’s friends when they first learned 
of his marriage ; but as Mademoiselle Mimi was' very 
agreeable and not at all prudish, and as pipe smoke and 
literary conversations did not make her head ache, they 
became accustomed to her, and treated her as a comrade. 
Mimi was a charming creature, whose nature was partic- 
ularly well adapted to Rodolphe’s plastic and poetic 
tendencies. She was twenty-two years old ; small, grace- 
ful and roguish. Her face seemed like the rough draft 
of an aristocratic face : but her features, which were 


228 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


extremely well-cut and softly lighted up by the gleam of 
her clear, blue eyes, assumed at certain moments of 
ennui or ill-humor an expression of almost savage bru- 
tality, in which a physiologist might have detected indi- 
cations of profound selfishness or utter lack of feeling. 
But most of the time it was a charming face, with a 
bright, youthful smile, with an expression of melting ten- 
derness or imperious coquetry. The blood of youth 
coursed hotly and swiftly through her veins, and suffused 
with ruddy hues the camellia-like whiteness of her trans- 
parent skin. That unhealthy beauty fascinated Rodolphe, 
and he often passed many hours of the night crowning 
with kisses the pale brow of his slumbering mistress, 
whose weary, melting eyes, half-closed, glistened beneath 
the curtain of her glorious brown hair. But what con- 
tributed more than anything else to make Rodolphe 
madly in love with Mademoiselle Mimi was her hands, 
which, notwithstanding her housekeeping duties, she 
succeeded in keeping whiter than those of the Goddess 
of Idleness. And yet those tiny, slender hands, so soft 
to the touch of the lips, those child’s hands in which 
Rodolphe had placed his heart, blooming anew, those 
white hands of Mademoiselle Mimi’s were destined soon 
to rend the poet’s heart with their pink nails. 

After a month, Rodolphe began to discover that he 
had married a tempest, and that his mistress had one 
great fault. She went neighboring , as they say, and 
passed a great part of her time with the kept women in 


MADEMOISELLE MIMf 


229 


the quarter, whose acquaintance she had made. The 
result that Rodolphe had feared when he discovered the 
connections formed by his mistress, soon came to pass. 
The periodical opulence of some of her new friends 
planted a whole forest of ambition in the mind of Made- 
moiselle Mimi, who had hitherto displayed only modest 
tastes, and had been content with the necessaries of life, 
which Rodolphe procured for her as best he could. 
Mimi began to dream of silk and velvet and lace. And, 
despite Rodolphe’s commands, she continued to asso- 
ciate with the aforesaid women, all of whom were agreed 
in trying to persuade her to break with the Bohemian, 
who could not give her as much as a hundred and fifty 
francs to buy a cloth dress. 

“ Pretty as you are,” said her advisers, “ you can easily 
find a better chance. All you have to do is to look for 
one.” 

And Mademoiselle Mimi began to look. Noticing her 
frequent goings out, which she explained in a very bun- 
gling way, Rodolphe entered upon the painful path of 
suspicion. But as soon as he felt that he was on the 
trace of some act of infidelity, he resolutely placed a 
bandage over his eyes in order to see nothing. Mean- 
while, no matter what happened, he adored Mimi. He 
had for her a jealous, capricious, quarrelsome, strange 
kind of passion, which the young woman did not under- 
stand, because she felt for Rodolphe only the lukewarm 
attachment which results from habit. Moreover, half of 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


230 

her heart had been worn out in the days of her first love, 
and the other half was still full of memories of her first 
lover. 

Eight months passed thus, made up of alternate good 
days and bad days. During those eight months, Ro- 
dolphe was twenty times on the point of separating from 
Mademoiselle Mimi, who inflicted upon him all the un- 
skilful tortures of the woman who does not love. To 
speak plainly, their existence had become a hell to both 
of them. But Rodolphe had become accustomed to the 
daily quarrels, and dreaded nothing so much as to have 
that state of things come to an end, for he felt that with 
it would cease forever the feverish impulses of youth and 
the keen emotions he had not felt for so long. And 
then, if the truth must be told, there were times when 
Mademoiselle Mimi made Rodolphe forget all the sus- 
picions with which his heart was torn. There were mo- 
ments when she brought to her feet, like a child, under 
the charm of her blue eyes, the poet whom she had 
helped to find his lost poetic talent, the young man to 
whom she had restored his youth, and who, thanks to 
her, had passed once more under the equator of love. 
Two or three times a month, in the midst of their fierce 
quarrels, Rodolphe and Mimi halted by common con- 
sent in the cool oasis of a night of love and sweet con- 
verse. At such times, Rodolphe would take his mistress’s 
animated, smiling face between his hands, and abandon 
himself for whole hours to the joy of talking to her in the 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


231 


absurd, yet charming language which passion improvises 
in its hours of delirium. Mimi would listen, calm at 
first, astonished rather than moved, but at last Rodolphe’s 
enthusiastic eloquence, tender, bright and melancholy by 
turns, would gradually have its effect upon her. At the 
contact of that passion, she would feel the ice of indiffer- 
ence that benumbed her heart melting within her, the 
fever of contagion would begin to quicken her pulses, 
she would throw her arms about Rodolphe’s neck and 
say to him in kisses all that she had been unable to say 
in words. And the dawn would surpiise them thus, 
wrapped in each other’s arms, eye to eye, hand in hand, 
while their burning lips still murmured the immortal 
words : 


Which for years five thousand past, 

Have nightly hung on lovers’ lips. 

But the next day the most trivial pretext would lead to 
a quarrel, and love, dismayed, would fly away for a long 
while to come. 

At last, Rodolphe realized that if he did not look to 
himself, Mademoiselle Mimi’s white hands would lead 
him into a pit in which he would leave his future and his 
youth. For a moment stern reason spoke louder than 
love within him, and he persuaded himself by logical 
arguments, supported by proofs, that his mistress did not 
love him. He went so far as to say to himself that the 
hours of affection which she vouchsafed to him were sim- 


232 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


ply a whim of the senses like those which married women 
feel for their husbands when they have a feverish desire 
for a cashmere shawl or a new dress, or when their lovers 
are away. “ When one has no white bread, one is content 
with brown bread,” says the proverb. In short, Rodolphe 
could forgive his mistress everything except her ceasing 
to love him. He took the heroic course, therefore, and 
informed Mademoiselle Mimi that she would have to 
seek another lover. Mimi began to laugh and bluster. 
At last, seeing that Rodolphe held to his determination 
and received her with perfect tranquillity when she re- 
turned home after a night and a day abroad, she began 
to be a little anxious in view of such firmness, to which 
she was by no means accustomed. She was charming 
in her manner toward him for two or three days. But 
her lover did not retract what he had said, and contented 
himself with asking if she had found anyone. 

“ I simply haven’t looked,” she replied. 

But she had looked, even before Rodolphe advised 
her so to do. Within a fortnight she had made two 
attempts. One of her female friends had assisted her 
and had, in the first place, arranged for her an introduc- 
tion to a young sprig who had caused a whole world of 
Indian shawls and violet-wood furniture to gleam before 
Mimi’s eyes. But, as Mimi herself concluded, although 
the young student might be very strong in algebra, he 
was not a very accomplished clerk in love ; and as she 
was not fond of teaching, she dropped her lover in em- 


MADEMOISELLE M1MI 


233 


bryo, with his cashmeres which were browsing in the 
plains of Thibet, and his violet-wood furniture still grow- 
ing in the forests of the New World. 

The schoolboy was soon replaced by a Breton noble- 
man, of whom Mimi soon became dotingly fond, and 
she did not need to be asked many times to become a 
countess. 

Despite his mistress’s protestations, Rodolphe got wind 
of some intrigue ; he determined to find out just how far 
it had gone, and one morning, after a night which Ma- 
demoiselle Mimi passed away from the house, he hurried 
to the place where he suspected that she was, and was 
able there to plunge into his heart one of those proofs in 
which one must believe whether or not. He saw Made- 
moiselle Mimi, her eyes surrounded by a halo of de- 
bauchery, issue from the mansion in which she had been 
-raised to the nobility, hanging on the arm of her new lord 
and master, who, we are compelled to state, seemed 
much less proud of his conquest than Paris, the comely 
Greek shepherd, after the abduction of the fair Helen. 

Mademoiselle Mimi seemed a little surprised when she 
spied her lover. She walked up to him and they con- 
versed very calmly for five minutes. Then they separated 
to go their respective ways. Their rupture was deter- 
mined upon. 

Rodolphe returned home and passed the day tying up 
everything that belonged to his mistress. 

During the day following his divorce, Rodolphe re- 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


234 

ceived visits from several of his friends, and told them 
of what had taken place. Everybody congratulated him 
thereon as if it were the greatest good fortune. 

“We will assist you, O my poet,” said one of those 
who had most frequently witnessed the tortures that 
Mademoiselle had inflicted on Rodolphe ; “ we will assist 
you to withdraw your heart from a wretched creature’s 
hands. And you will soon be cured and ready to wan- 
der with another Mimi through the green paths of Aulnay 
and Fontenay-aux-Roses.” 

Rodolphe swore that he was done forever with regrets 
and despair. He even allowed himself to be enticed to 
the Bal Mabille, where his disordered costume shabbily 
represented L'Echarpe d'lris, to which he was indebted 
for his admission to that lovely garden of pleasure and 
fashion. There Rodolphe met other friends with whom 
he drank. He described his misfortune to them with an 
extraordinary wealth of strange eloquence, and for an 
hour his vehemence and fervor were fairly bewildering. 

“ Alas ! alas ! ” said Marcel, the painter, as he listened 
to the shower of sarcasm that fell from his friend Ro- 
dolphe’s lips. Rodolphe is too gay, much too gay ! ” 

“ He is charming ! ” rejoined a young woman to 
whom Rodolphe had just offered a bouquet; “and 
although he is very badly dressed, I would willingly en- 
danger my reputation by dancing with him if he chose 
to ask me.” 

Two seconds later, Rodolphe, who had overheard, was 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


2 35 


at her feet, enveloping his invitation in a speech per- 
fumed with all the musk and benzoin of gallantry at 80 
degrees Richelieu. The lady stood speechless in the 
face of that language, bespangled with dazzling adjec- 
tives and involved phrases, with a Regency flavor calcu- 
lated to bring a blush to the heels of Rodolphe’s shoes ; 
he had never shown himself such an old-Sevres gentle- 
man. The invitation was accepted. 

Rodolphe was as ignorant of the first principles of 
dancing as of the rule of three. But he was inspired by 
monumental audacity, so he did not hesitate to begin, 
and he improvised a dance unknown to all past systems 
of choregraphy. It was a step called the step of regrets 
and sighs , and it was so unique that it was extraordina- 
rily successful. In vain did the three thousand gas jets 
put out their tongues as if to mock him. Rodolphe 
danced on, and threw in his partner’s face an endless 
string of fulsome compliments entirely new and original. 

“ Alas ! ” said Marcel, “ it’s incredible ; Rodolphe 
seems to me like a drunken man stumbling over broken 
glass.” 

“ Meanwhile he has caught a magnificent woman,” said 
another, as he saw Rodolphe making his escape with his 
partner. 

“You haven’t said good-night to us,” cried Marcel. 

Rodolphe returned to the artist and gave him his 
hand ; it was cold and damp, like a wet stone. 

Rodolphe’s companion was a buxom Norman damsel. 


236 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


a rich, overflowing nature, whose native rusticity had 
speedily become imbued with aristocratic manners amid 
the refinements of Parisian luxury and a life of leisure. 
Her name was something like Madame S£raphine, and 
she was at present the mistress of one Rheumatism, a 
peer of France, who gave her fifty louis a month, which 
she divided with a certain bookkeeper who gave her only 
blows. Rodolphe attracted her, she hoped that he 
would not give her anything, and she took him home 
with her. 

“ Lucile,” she said to her maid, “ I am not at home 
to any one.” And, having passed into her bedroom, she 
returned in five minutes, clad in a special costume. She 
found Rodolphe silent and motionless as a statue, for 
immediately upon entering the room he had, in spite of 
himself, buried himself in dense gloom filled with silent 
sobs. 

“You don’t look at me, you don’t speak to me,” said 
S£raphine in amazement. 

“Well,” said Rodolphe to himself, raising his eyes, 
“ I will look, but for art’s sake only.” 

And what a spectacle then met his eyes ! as Raoul says 
in Les Huguenots. 

Seraphine was wonderfully lovely. Her fine figure, 
cunningly shown to the best advantage by the cut of the 
garment she wore, was outlined most enticingly through 
the half-transparent stuff. All the imperious fever of de- 
sire reawoke in Rodolphe’s veins. A hot mist mounted 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


237 


to his brain. He looked at S£raphine from another 
point of view than that of love of the aesthetic, and took 
the lovely creature’s hands in his. They were sublime 
hands ; you would have said they had been carved by 
the chisels of the purest Greek art. Rodolphe felt them 
tremble in his ; and, retaining less and less of the critic 
of art, he drew S£raphine toward him, her face being 
already suffused with the rosy flush which is the dawn of 
voluptuousness. 

“ This creature is a genuine instrument of pleasure, a 
true Stradivarius of love, on which I will willingly play a 
tune,” thought Rodolphe, hearing very distinctly the fair 
one’s heart hurriedly beating the charge. 

At that moment the bell at the door of the apartment 
rang a loud peal. 

“ Lucile ! Lucile ! ” S£raphine cried to her maid, 
“don’t open the door; say that I haven’t come in.” 

At the name of Lucile, uttered twice, Rodolphe rose. 

“ I do not wish to embarrass you in any way, ma- 
dame,” he said. “ Besides, I must take my leave ; it is 
late, and I live a long way from here. Good evening.” 

“What! you are going?” cried S£raphine, and the 
lightning flashed with renewed energy in her glance. 
“ Why, why do you go? I am at liberty, you can stay.” 

“ Impossible,” Rodolphe replied. “I expect one of 
my relations to-night from the Terra del Fuego, and he 
would disinherit me if I weren’t at home to greet him. 
Good evening, madame.” 


238 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


He rushed hurriedly from the room. The maid went 
to light him to the door. Rodolphe absent-mindedly let 
his eyes rest upon her . She was a slender young woman, 
slow of movement; her very pale face presented a 
charming contrast to her black hair, which curled nat- 
urally, and her blue eyes looked like two sickly stars. 

“ O phantom ! ” cried Rodolphe, recoiling before her 
who bore his mistress’s name and features. “ Back ! 
what do you want? ” and he hurried downstairs. 

“Why, madame,” said the maid, returning to her mis- 
tress, “ that young man is mad.” 

“Say rather that he’s a fool ! ” retorted S^raphine 
angrily. “Oh! this will teach me to be kind!” she 
added. “ If that gaby of a L£on only knew enough to 
come now ! ” 

Leon was the gentleman whose attachment took the 
form of a whip. 

Rodolphe ran home without stopping for breath. As 
he went upstairs he found his yellow cat uttering plain- 
tive lamentations. For two nights he had called in vain 
to his faithless sweetheart, an Angora Manon Lescaut, 
who had set out upon a love-making excursion over the 
neighboring roofs. 

“ Poor beast ! ” said Rodolphe ; “ you have been be- 
trayed, too ; your Mimi has been playing tricks on you 
just as mine has on me. Basta ! let’s take courage. My 
poor fellow, a woman’s heart, or a cat’s, you see, is an 
abyss which neither men nor cats can ever fathom.” 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


239 


When he entered his room, Rodolphe fancied that he 
felt an icy cloak fall over his shoulders, although it 
was fearfully hot. It was the chill of solitude, the hor- 
rible solitude of night, which there was nothing to 
enliven. He lighted his candle and looked about the 
devastated room. The furniture opened its empty draw- 
ers, and a boundless melancholy filled the room from 
floor to ceiling, so that it seemed to Rodolphe more 
immense than a desert. As he walked across the room, 
he stumbled over the packages that contained Mademoi- 
selle Mimi’s goods and chattels, and he was conscious of 
a thrill of joy when he found that she had not yet come 
to get them as she had said that she would do in the 
morning. Struggle against it as he would, Rodolphe felt 
that the hour of reaction was approaching, and he had a 
foreboding that a ghastly night was the penalty he would 
have to pay for all the bitter cheerfulness he had squan- 
dered during the evening. He hoped, however, that 
his body, being thoroughly exhausted, would fall asleep 
before the suffering, so long confined in his heart, should 
awake. 

As he approached the bed and put aside the curtains, 
as he looked upon that bed which had not been dis- 
turbed for two days, and at the two pillows side by side, 
under one of which the trimming of a woman’s cap was 
still half visible, Rodolphe felt at his heart the pressure 
as of a resistless vice, of the dull agony that can find no 
outlet. He fell at the foot of the bed, buried his face in 


2\0 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


his hands after glancing about that desolate room, and 
cried : 

“ O little Mimi, joy of my house, is it really true that 
you have gone, that I have sent you away, and that I 
shall never see you again? My God ! — O pretty brown 
head, that has slept so many nights in this place, will 
you never return to sleep here again? O capricious 
voice, whose caresses drove me to frenzy and whose 
anger delighted me, shall I never hear you more ? O 
little white, blue-veined hands, to which I had betrothed 
my lips, — have you received my last kiss?” And Ro- 
dolphe, in delirious excitement, buried his face in the 
pillows, still redolent of the perfume of his mistress’s 
hair. In the depths of the alcove it seemed to him that 
he saw the spectres of the delicious nights he had passed 
with his young mistress. He heard Mademoiselle Mimi’s 
hearty laughter ring out, clear and resonant, amid the 
silence of the night, and his mind recurred to the fasci- 
nating, contagious gayety with which she had so often 
succeeded in making him forget all the annoyances and 
all the trials of their uncertain existence. 

During that night he passed in review the eight months 
that he had lived with that youthful creature, who had 
never loved him perhaps, but whose tender falsehood 
had restored to Rodolphe’s heart its youth and early 
virility. 

The dawn surprised him just at the moment when, 
overcome by fatigue, he had closed his eyes, red with the 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


241 


tears he had shed during the night. A painful, terrible 
vigil ; even the most sceptical and mocking of men can 
find more than one such in the dim recesses of the past. 

In the morning, when Rodolphe’s friends called upon 
him, they were alarmed at the aspect he presented, his 
features laid waste by all the anguish he had endured 
during his vigil on the Mount of Olives of love. 

“ I was sure it would be so,” said Marcel, “ his gayety 
of yesterday reacted on his heart. He can’t go on like 
this.” 

Thereupon, in concert with two or three comrades, he 
began to make a succession of indiscreet revelations con- 
cerning Mademoiselle Mimi, every word of which pierced 
Rodolphe’s heart like a thorn. His friends proved to 
him that his mistress had always deceived him as if he 
were a fool, at home and abroad, and that that creat- 
ure, as pale as the angel of consumption, was a treasure- 
chest of evil sentiments and savage instincts. 

They relieved one another in the task they had under- 
taken, whose aim was to lead Rodolphe to the point 
where soured love changes to contempt ; but that result 
was only half attained. The poet’s despair changed to 
indignation. He pounced fiercely on the packages he 
had made up the day before ; and after putting aside all 
that his mistress had in her possession when she came to 
him, he kept all that he had given her during their liaison, 
that is to say the greater part of her belongings, espe- 
cially those toilet articles to which Mademoiselle Mimi 
16 


242 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


was attached by every fibre of her coquetry, which had 
become immeasurable of late. 

Mademoiselle Mimi came on the following day to 
take away her property. Rodolphe was at home and 
alone. He found it necessary to exert all the power of 
his self-esteem to avoid throwing himself upon his mis- 
tress’s neck. His greeting overflowed with unspoken 
affronts, and Mademoiselle Mimi retorted with cold, bit- 
ing insults of the sort that sharpen the claws of the weak- 
est and most timid. In face of the contempt with which 
his mistress scourged him with persistent insolence, Ro- 
dolphe’s wrath burst forth, fierce and terrifying; for a 
moment Mimi, white with terror, wondered if she would 
escape alive from his hands. Several neighbors ran to 
the spot on hearing her cries, and took her from the 
room. 

Two days later, a female friend of Mimi came and 
asked Rodolphe if he proposed to give up the articles he 
had kept. — “ No,” he replied. 

He led the messenger on to talk of his mistress. The 
woman informed him that Mimi was in a very wretched 
plight and that she would soon be without a roof to 
cover her. 

“And what about her lover, of whom she’s so 
fond?” 

“Why,” replied Amalie, the friend in question, “ that 
young man has no idea of taking her for his mistress. 
He has had one for a long while, and he seems to care 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


243 

very little for Mimi, who is living on me and is a great 
burden to me.” 

“ Let her get out of it as she can,” said Rodolphe, 
“ it’s her own doing; it’s no business of mine.” — And 
he began to flatter Mademoiselle Amalie, and persuaded 
her that she was the loveliest creature in the world. 

Amalie described her interview with Rodolphe to 
Mimi. 

“What did he say? what is he doing?” she asked. 
“ Did he mention me?” 

“ Not once ; you are forgotten already, my dear. Ro- 
dolphe has a new mistress and has bought a superb trous- 
seau for her, for he has come into a lot of money and is 
dressed like a prince himself. He’s a very pleasant 
young man, and he said some delightful things to 
me.” 

“ I will find out what this means,” thought Mimi. 

Mademoiselle Amalie went to see Rodolphe every day 
on some pretext or other ; and, try as he would, he 
could not refrain from talking to her about Mimi. 

“ She’s very bright,” Amalie would reply, “and doesn’t 
seem at all worried about her position. By the way, she 
declares that she’ll return to you whenever she chooses, 
without making any advances and simply to annoy your 
friends.” 

“Very well,” said Rodolphe, “let her come and we’ll 
see.” 

And he renewed his attentions to Amelie, who went 


244 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


away and told Mimi everything, assuring her that Ro- 
dolphe was over head and ears in love with her. 

“ He kissed my hand and neck,” she said ; “ see, it’s 
all red. He wants to take me to the ball to-morrow.” 

“ My dear friend,” said Mimi, somewhat piqued, “ I 
see what you are coming at — you want to make me think 
that Rodolphe’s in love with you and never thinks of 
me. But you’re wasting your time, both with him and 
with me.” 

The fact was that Rodolphe’s only purpose in being 
amiable to Amalie was to induce her to come often to 
see him, and thus to have an opportunity to talk about 
his mistress ; but Amelie, with a Machiavellianism, which 
had an object of its own perhaps, and because she saw 
that Rodolphe still loved Mimi, and that Mimi was not 
far from being inclined to return to him — Amalie did 
her utmost, by shrewdly fabricated reports, to turn aside 
anything that might tend to reconcile the lovers. 

On the day on which she was to go to the ball, Amalie 
went to Rodolphe in the morning to ask if the engage- 
ment held good. 

“Yes,” he replied, “I don’t propose to miss the op- 
portunity of acting as the escort of the loveliest person 
of modern times.” 

Am&ie resumed the coquettish air which she adopted 
on the occasion of her sole appearance at a theatre in 
the suburbs, in the role of fourth soubrette, and promised 
that she would be ready when the time came. 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


245 


“ By the way,” said Rodolphe, “ tell Mademoiselle 
Mimi that if she chooses to be unfaithful to her lover for 
my benefit, and will come and pass a night here, I will 
give her all her property.” 

Amalie did Rodolphe ’s errand, but gave to his words 
an entirely different meaning from that which she had 
detected in them. 

“ Your Rodolphe is a low-lived creature,” she said to 
Mimi, “ his proposal is an outrage. He wants to induce 
you to lower yourself, by that step, to the level of the 
vilest creatures ; and if you go to him, he not only won’t 
return your property, but he’ll make you serve as a laugh- 
ing-stock to all his friends ; it is a plot concocted among 
them.” 

“I won’t go,” said Mimi; and, seeing that Amelie 
was preparing to dress, she asked her if she were going 
to the ball. 

“Yes,” was the reply. 

“With Rodolphe? ” 

“Yes, he is to wait for me a few steps from the 
house.” 

“A good time to you,” said Mimi. 

When she saw that the time for the meeting was ap- 
proaching, Mimi ran in hot haste to Amalie’s lover, and 
informed him that she was hatching a little treachery 
with her, Mimi’s, former lover. 

The gentleman in question, who was as jealous as a 
tiger and as brutal as a quarter-staff, called upon Made- 


246 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


moiselle Amalie and informed her that he thought it 
would be an excellent plan for her to pass the evening 
with him. 

At eight o’clock Mimi repaired to the place where 
Rodolphe was to meet Amelie. She spied her lover 
walking back and forth after the manner of a person who 
is waiting ; twice she passed close to him but dared not 
accost him. Rodolphe was attired with great elegance 
that evening, and the violent emotions of which he had 
been a victim for a week past had imparted a great deal 
of character to his face. Mimi was deeply moved. At 
last she decided to speak to him. Rodolphe greeted her 
without anger and asked about her health, after which 
he inquired as to her object in coming to him ; all this 
in a mild voice, wherein a melancholy accent was con- 
stantly but with difficulty held in check. 

“ I have come to tell you some bad news : Mademoi- 
selle Amalie can’t go to the ball with you, she is kept at 
home by her lover.” 

“Then I’ll go to the ball alone.” 

At that point Mademoiselle Mimi pretended to stum- 
ble and clung to Rodolphe’s shoulder. He took her 
arm and proposed to escort her home. 

“No,” said Mimi, “ I live with Amalie ; and as her 
lover’s with her, I can’t go home till he’s gone.” 

“ Listen,” said the poet, “ I made a proposition to 
you through Mademoiselle Amalie ; did she transmit it 
to you?” 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


247 


“Yes,” said Mimi, “but in words that I could hardly 
believe came from you, even after all that has happened. 
No, Rodolphe, I didn’t think that, in spite of all you 
may have a right to blame me for, you would believe 
that I had so little heart as to stoop to such a bar- 
gain.” 

“You didn’t understand me, or else the message was 
not delivered correctly. What is said is said,” added 
Rodolphe ; “ it is nine o’clock, you still have three hours 
to reflect. My key will be in my door till midnight. 
Bonsoir, adieu or au revoir.” 

“ Adieu,’-’ said Mimi in a trembling voice. And they 
parted. 

Rodolphe returned home and threw himself, fully 
dressed, on the bed. At half-past eleven Mademoiselle 
Mimi entered his room. 

“ I have come to ask you to take me in,” she said ; 
“Amalie’s lover has stayed with her and I can’t get in.” 

They talked until three o’clock in the morning. A 
conversation of explanations, in which now and then the 
familiar thou succeeded the you of formal discussion. 

At four o’clock their candle went out. Rodolphe 
started to light a new one. 

“No,” said Mimi, “it isn’t worth while; it’s time to 
go to sleep.” 

And five minutes later her pretty brown head had 
resumed its place on the pillow ; and in a voice over- 
flowing with affection, she called Rodolphe’s lips to her 


248 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


little blue-veined white hands, whose pearly pallor 
rivalled the whiteness of the sheets. Rodolphe did not 
light the candle. 

The next morning Rodolphe was the first to rise ; he 
called Mimi’s attention to a number of packages, and 
said to her very softly : 

“ There is what belongs to you, you can take it away ; 
I keep my word.” 

“ Oh ! ” said Mimi, “I’m awfully tired, you know, and 
I can’t carry all those packages at once. I’d rather 
return.” 

When she was dressed she took nothing but a collar 
and a pair of cuffs. 

“ I will take away what’s left — a little at a time,” she 
said with a smile. 

“Nonsense,” said Rodolphe, “take all or nothing; 
but let’s have done with this.” 

“ On the contrary, let’s begin again, and, above all, let 
it last,” said the youthful Mimi, kissing him. 

After breakfasting together, they started to go into 
the country. As they passed through the Luxembourg 
gardens, they met a great poet who had always greeted 
Rodolphe with delightful heartiness. From a sense of 
decency Rodolphe was going to pretend not to see him. 
But the poet did not give him time ; as he passed him, 
he waved his hand in a most friendly way and, with a 
gracious smile, bowed to his young companion. 

“Who is that gentleman? ” inquired Mimi. 


MADEMOISELLE MIMI 


249 


Rodolphe mentioned a name which made her blush 
with pleasure. 

“ Ah ! ” said Rodolphe, “ this meeting with the poet 
who has sung so sweetly of love is a good omen and will 
bring our reconciliation good luck.” 

“ I love you,” said Mimi, pressing his hand, although 
they were surrounded by people. 

“ Alas ! ” thought Rodolphe, “ which is preferable, to 
be always deceived because you believe, or never to be- 
lieve for fear of being deceived? ” 






XV 

DONEC GRATUS— 

We have told how the painter Marcel became ac- 
quainted with Mademoiselle Musette. United one 
morning by the ministrations of caprice, who is the 
mayor of the thirteenth arrondissement, they had sup- 
posed, as often happens, that they were married with 
the understanding that each was to retain his or her own 
heart. But one evening, after a fierce quarrel in which 
they had resolved to part on the spot, they discovered 
that their hands, which had grasped each other in fare- 
well, refused to separate. Almost without their knowl- 
edge their caprice had become love. They both admit- 
ted the fact, half laughingly. 

“ This is a very serious thing that has happened to 
us,” said Marcel. “ How the devil have we done it?” 

“ Oh ! we’re a pair of bunglers,” said Musette, “ we 
didn’t take precautions enough.” 

“What’s the trouble?” queried Rodolphe, who had 
recently become Marcel’s neighbor and who entered the 
room at that moment. 

( 2 50 


2 5 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ The matter is,” Marcel replied, “ that mademoiselle,” 
— indicating Musette — “ and myself have just made a 
charming discovery. We are in love. It must have 
come to us in our sleep.” 

“ Oho ! in your sleep — I don’t think it,” said Ro- 
dolphe. “ But what is there to prove that you love each 
other? Perhaps you exaggerate the danger.” 

“ Parbleu !” said Marcel, “we can’t endure each 
other.” 

“And we can’t separate,” added Musette. 

“ In that case, my children, your case is very clear. 
You have both tried to play the sharpest game and you 
have both lost. It’s my experience with Mimi. We shall 
soon have used up two calendars disputing night and 
day. That’s the system that makes marriages last for 
ever. Unite a yes with a no and you have a Philemon 
and Baucis household. Your establishment is a good 
match for mine; and if Schaunard and Phemie come 
and live in the house, as they have threatened, our trio 
of households will make a very attractive habitation.” 

At that moment Gustave Colline came in. He was 
informed of the accident that had happened to Musette 
and Marcel. 

“Well, philosopher,” said the latter, “what do you 
say to that? ” 

Colline scratched the nap of the hat which served 
him as a shelter and murmured : 

“I was sure of it beforehand. Love is a game of 


DONEC GRATUS— 


2 53 


hazard. Whoever rubs against it get’s pricked. It isn’t 
good for man to be alone.” 

On returning to his own abode that evening, Rodolphe 
said to Mimi : 

“ I have some news. Musette’s mad over Marcel and 
won’t leave him.” 

“ Poor girl ! ” replied Mimi. “ She has such a good 
appetite ! ” 

“ And Marcel, for his part, is in Musette’s clutches. 
He adores her thirty-six carats fine, as that schemer of 
a Colline would say.” 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Mimi. “ He’s so jealous ! ” 

“True,” said Rodolphe, “he and I are both pupils of 
Othello.” 

Some time after this, the Schaunard establishment 
joined forces with the establishments of Rodolphe and 
Marcel ; the musician moved into the house with Ph£mie 
Teinturiere. 

From that day forth all the other tenants slept on a 
volcano, and at the end of the quarter they gave the 
landlord notice to a man. 

Indeed, few days passed that a storm did not break 
out in one or other of the households. Sometimes 
Mimi and Rodolphe, having no strength left for speech, 
explained their meaning with the aid of such projectiles 
as came to hand. Most frequently the disturbance was 
caused by Schaunard making a few observations with 
the end of a cane to the melancholy Ph£mie. As for 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


254 

Marcel and Musette, their discussions were carried on 
in silence behind closed doors ; they took the precau- 
tion at least to close their doors and windows. 

If by chance peace reigned in all the households, the 
other tenants were sufferers by that ephemeral harmony 
none the less. The indiscretions of the partitions al- 
lowed all the secrets of the Bohemian households to 
reach their ears, and initiated them, in spite of them- 
selves, into all their mysteries. Wherefore more than one 
of the neighbors preferred the casus belli to the ratifica- 
tion of the treaties of peace. 

It was in very truth a strange existence that they led 
for six months. The most loyal fraternal spirit reigned 
without affectation in that little circle, where everything 
belonged to all and good and evil fortune alike were 
shared equally. 

There were certain days of splendor during the month, 
when they would not have gone down into the street 
without gloves, days of joy and gladness, when they 
dined all day long. There were others when they would 
almost have gone into the courtyard with bare feet, days 
of fasting when, after going without breakfast together, 
they went without dinner together, or else succeeded, 
by dint of economical expedients, in indulging in one of 
those repasts in which the plates and knives and forks 
had a vacation as Mademoiselle Mimi said. 

But the most extraordinary thing was that, in that as- 
sociation, which included three young and pretty women, 


DON EC GRATUS— 


255 


no suspicion of discord ever arose among the men : they 
often bent the knee to the most absurd whims of their 
mistresses, but not one of them would have hesitated a 
moment between the woman and the friend. 

Love is above all things spontaneous in its birth ; it is an 
improvisation. Friendship, on the other hand, is built 
up, so to speak : it is a sentiment which proceeds with 
great care and circumspection ; it is selfishness of the 
mind, while love is selfishness of the heart. 

The Bohemians had known one another for six years. 
That long period passed in daily association had, without 
changing the well-marked individuality of each, led to a 
general harmony of ideas between them, a unanimity 
that would not otherwise have existed. They had ways 
that were peculiar to themselves, a language of their 
own to which strangers could not have found the key. 
Those persons who did not know them very well called 
their free and easy manner cynicism. But it was nothing 
more than frankness. Restive under everything that 
was forced upon them, they hated the false and de- 
spised the commonplace. Accused of exaggerated 
vanity, they replied by setting forth proudly the pro- 
gramme of their ambition ; and, conscious of their 
worth, they made no mistakes concerning themselves. 

Although they had walked together so many years in 
the same path, often forced into rivalry by the circum- 
stances in which they were placed, they had not dropped 
one another’s hands and had passed over, without notic- 


256 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


ing them, questions affecting their individual self-esteem, 
when attempts had been made to sow discord between 
them by raising such questions. They esteemed one 
another just according to their respective deserts ; and 
pride, which is the antidote of envy, preserved them 
from all the petty professional jealousies. 

However, after six months of life in common, an epi- 
demic of divorce suddenly descended upon the various 
households. 

Schaunard opened the procession. He discovered 
one day that Ph£mie Teinturiere had one knee better 
made than the other; and as he was of the strictest 
purism in matters of plastic art, he dismissed Phemie, 
giving her as a souvenir the cane with which he so fre- 
quently made remarks to her. Then he went to live 
with a relation who offered him a lodging gratis. 

A fortnight later Mimi left Rodolphe to ride in the car- 
riage of young Vicomte Paul, Carolus Barbemuche’s for- 
mer pupil, who promised her dresses spangled with gold. 

After Mimi, Musette took her departure and returned 
with a great flourish of trumpets to the aristocracy of 
the gallant world, which she had left to go with Marcel. 

The separation took place without a quarrel, without a 
shock and without premeditation. Born of a caprice 
which had become love, the liaison was broken off by 
another caprice. 

One evening during the carnival, at the masked ball 
at the Opera, whither she had gone with Marcel, Mu- 


DONEC GRATUS— 


257 


sette had for her vis-a-vis in a quadrille a young man who 
had once paid court to her. They recognized each other 
and exchanged a few words as they danced. Uninten- 
tionally perhaps, as she told the young man of her present 
life, she let fall a word of regret for her past. However 
that may be, at the end of the quadrille, Musette made a 
mistake ; and instead of giving her hand to Marcel, who 
was her partner, she took the hand of her vis-a-vis, who 
hurried her away and disappeared with her in the crowd. 

Marcel looked everywhere for her and was consider- 
ably disturbed. After an hour’s search, he found her on 
the young man’s arm, coming out of the Caf£ de l’Op£ra 
with her mouth full of snatches of song. When she saw 
Marcel, who was standing in a corner with his arms 
folded, she waved her hand by way of adieu, saying : 
“ I am coming back.” 

“That means ‘don’t wait for me,’” Marcel trans- 
lated. He was jealous, but he was logical, and he knew 
Musette ; and so he did not wait for her ; he returned 
home with a heavy heart but a light stomach. He 
looked in a closet to see if there were no scraps to eat ; 
he found a piece of bread as hard as granite and the 
skeleton of a red herring. 

“I couldn’t contend with truffles,” thought Marcel. 
“At all events, Musette has had some supper.” And 
having wiped his eyes with a corner of his handkerchief, 
on the pretext of blowing his nose, he went to bed. 

Two days later Musette awoke in a boudoir hung with 
*7 


258 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


pink. A blue coup£ was waiting at her door, and all 
the fairies in the world, being called into service, laid 
their marvels at her feet. Musette was fascinating, and 
she seemed to grow even younger amid those elegant 
surroundings. Thereafter she resumed her former ex- 
istence, was at all the great functions, and reconquered 
her celebrity. She was talked about everywhere, in the 
passages of the Bourse, and even in the parliamentary 
restaurants. As for her new lover, Monsieur Alexis, he was 
a delightful young man. He often complained to Musette 
that he found her a little inattentive and heedless when 
he talked to her of his love ; thereupon Musette would 
look up at him with a laugh, pat his hand and say : 

“What can you expect, my dear man? I lived for 
six months with a man who fed me on salad and 
soup, with no butter, who dressed me in cotton gowns 
and took me often to the Od£on, because he wasn’t rich. 
As love costs nothing and I was mad over the monster, 
we spent considerable love. I have almost nothing left 
but the crumbs. Pick them up, I have no objection. 
At all events, I haven’t gulled you; and if ribbons didn’t 
cost so much I should still be with my painter. As for 
my heart, since I have worn eighty-franc corsets, I don’t 
seem to hear it make much noise and I am afraid I may 
have forgotten it and left it in one of Marcel’s table 
drawers.” 

The disappearance of the three Bohemian households 
was the cause of general rejoicing in the house in which 


DON EC GRATUS— 


2 59 


they had lived. The landlord celebrated the event by a 
grand dinner-party and the tenants illuminated their 
windows. 

Rodolphe and Marcel had gone to live together ; they 
had each taken an idol of whose name they were not 
perfectly sure. Sometimes it happened that one of 
them spoke of Musette or the other of Mimi ; then they 
had food for conversation for a whole evening. They 
recalled their former life and Musette’s songs and Mimi’s 
songs, and the sleepless nights and the lazy mornings 
and the dinners eaten in dreams. One by one they 
would review in that duet of memories all the hours that 
had flown ; and they ordinarily ended by saying to them- 
selves that after all they were lucky to be together still, 
with their feet on the andirons, poking the December log, 
smoking their pipes, and having each other as an excuse 
for talking, and for saying aloud what they said to them- 
selves when they were alone ; that they had been very 
fond of those creatures who had disappeared and taken 
with them a slice of their youth, and that perhaps they 
still loved them. 

One evening, as he was walking along the boulevard, 
Marcel noticed a young woman a few steps away, who, 
as she alighted from a carriage, disclosed a bit of white 
stocking of peculiar symmetry ; even the coachman was 
devouring that fascinating pourboire with his eyes. 

“ Parbleu ! that’s a pretty leg,” said Marcel; “ I 
have a strong inclination to offer her my arm; let’s 


260 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


see — how shall I accost her? I have it — it’s a novel 
idea.” 

“ Excuse me, madame,” he said, walking up to the 
unknown, whose face he could not see at first, “ but you 
haven’t happened to find my handkerchief?” 

“ Yes, monsieur,” replied the young woman, “ here it 
is.” And she placed in Marcel’s hand a handkerchief 
which she held in her own. 

The artist fell over a precipice of astonishment. 

But suddenly a burst of laughter which he received 
full in the face, brought him to himself ; in that hilarious 
outburst he recognized his former flame. 

It was Mademoiselle Musette. 

“ Aha ! ” she eried, “ so Monsieur Marcel is on the 
hunt for adventures ! How do you find this one, eh ? 
It doesn’t lack jollity.” 

“ I find it very endurable,” Marcel replied. 

“Where are you going so late, in this quarter?” 
queried Musette. 

“I am going to that establishment,” said the artist, 
pointing to one of the small theatres, where he had a 
general privilege of admission. 

“ For love of art (Part) ? ” 

“ No, for love of Laure. — Ah ! ” thought Marcel, 
“ there’s a pun, I’ll sell it to Colline : he’s making a 
collection of ’em.” 

“Who is Laure?” continued Musette, whose very 
glances were marks of interrogation. 


DON EC GRATUS— 


261 


Marcel pursued his wretched jest. 

“ She’s a chimera that I am following and she plays 
the ingenues in this little sanctuary.” And he crumpled 
with his hand an imaginary shirt-frill. 

“You are very bright this evening,” said Musette. 

“ And you are very inquisitive.” 

“ Don’t speak so loud, everybody can hear us ; they’ll 
take us for two lovers quarrelling.” 

“ It wouldn’t be the first time that had happened to 
us,” said Marcel. 

Musette detected a challenge in that remark and re- 
torted quickly : 

“ And perhaps it won’t be the last, eh? ” 

The meaning of the words was unmistakable; they 
whistled like a bullet past Marcel’s ear. 

“Twinkling glories of heaven,” he said, looking up at 
the stars, “ you will bear witness that I did not fire first. 
Bring me my cuirass quickly ! ” 

From that moment the battle was on. 

It only remained to find a suitable pretext for bring- 
ing together those two caprices which had waked to such 
vigorous life. 

As they walked, Musette looked at Marcel and Marcel 
looked at Musette. They did not speak ; but their eyes, 
those ministers plenipotentiary of the heart, often met. 
After fifteen minutes of diplomatic negotiations, that 
congress of glances had tacitly arranged the affair. It 
only remained to exchange ratifications. 


262 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


The interrupted conversation was renewed. 

“ Frankly,” said Musette, “ where were you going just 
now? ” 

“ I told you I was going to see Laure.” 

“ Is she pretty? ” 

“ Her mouth is a nest of smiles.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” 

“But how about yourself,” said Marcel, “where were 
you coming from on the wings of yonder cabriolet ? ” 

“ I have just driven Alexis to the station ; he has gone 
to make a round of visits among his family.” 

“What sort of man is this Alexis ? ” 

Musette thereupon drew a fascinating portrait of her 
present lover. All along the boulevard Musette and Mar- 
cel continued to enact the comedy of the return of love. 
With the same ingenuousness, alternately loving and 
mocking, they rewrote, strophe by strophe, the immortal 
ode in which Horace and Lydia vaunt so gracefully the 
charms of their new loves and end by adding a postscript 
to their former loves. As they reached the corner of a 
street, a numerous patrol suddenly appeared. 

Musette concocted a coy attitude of alarm, and clung 
to Marcel’s arm. 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! ” she said, “ see that regiment 
coming, there’s going to be another revolution. Let us 
fly, I’m horribly afraid ; take me home ! ” 

“ But where are we going ? ” demanded Marcel. 

“To my rooms,” said Musette, “you shall see how 


DON EC GRATUS— 263 

pretty they are. I invite you to supper; we will talk 
politics.” 

“No,” said Marcel, thinking of Monsieur Alexis; “I 
won’t go home with you, notwithstanding your offer of 
supper. I am not fond of drinking my wine out of other 
people’s glasses.” 

Musette was dumb in the face of that refusal. 
Through the mist of her memories she descried the 
artist’s poor home ; for Marcel had not become a mil- 
lionaire. Thereupon Musette had an idea, and taking 
advantage of the appearance of another patrol, she mani- 
fested renewed alarm. 

“ They are going to fight ! ” she cried ; “ I shall never 
dare to go home. Marcel, my boy, pray take me to one 
of my friends who, I think, lives in your quarter.” 

As they crossed Pont Neuf, Musette suddenly laughed 
outright. 

“What’s the matter ? ” asked Marcel. 

“ Nothing,” she replied ; “ it has just occurred to me 
that my friend has moved ; she lives at Batignolles.” 

Rodolphe was not surprised when he saw Marcel and 
Musette appear, arm in arm. 

“ These half-buried love affairs,” he said, “ always act 
like that.” 




THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 


Marcel had been working five or six years at the 
famous picture which, he asserted, was to represent the 
Passage of the Red Sea, and, for five or six years that 
masterpiece of coloring had been obstinately refused by 
the jury. So it was that, by dint of going and coming 
from the artist’s studio to the museum and from the 
museum to the studio, the picture was so well acquainted 
with the road, that, if it had been placed on wheels it 
would have been quite capable of going to the Louvre 
all by itself. Marcel, who had repainted and reworked 
the canvas from top to bottom half a score of times, at- 
tributed to the personal enmity of the members of the 
jury the species of ostracism which annually turned him 
away from the square salon ; and in his leisure moments 
he had composed a dictionary of insults in honor of the 
Cerberuses of the Institute, with illustrations of venomous 
ferocity. This collection, which had become famous, 
had achieved, in the studios and at the Ecole des Beaux- 
Arts, the popular success achieved by the immortal 
( 26 5 ) 


266 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


lament of Jean B61in, painter in ordinary to the great 
Sultan of the Turks ; all the studio slaves of Paris had 
a copy in their memories. 

For a long time Marcel refused to be discouraged by 
the persistent refusals which fell to his lot at every ex- 
hibition. He had settled himself comfortably in the 
opinion that his picture was, on a smaller scale, the 
companion piece for which the Marriage at Cana 
was waiting — that gigantic chef -d' oeuvre, whose dazzling 
splendor the dust of three centuries has failed to dim. 
And so every year, in the Salon season, Marcel sent his 
picture to be passed upon by the jury. But, to lead the 
examiners astray and to endeavor to defeat the pre- 
conceived plan of exclusion which they had evidently 
adopted in respect to the Passage of the Red Sea , 
Marcel, without disturbing the general scheme of the 
composition, modified it in some details and changed 
the title. 

For instance, once it went before the jury under the 
name of the Passage of the Rubicon ; but Pharaoh, ill- 
disguised in Caesar’s cloak, was recognized and rejected 
with all the honors to which he was entitled. 

The following year, Marcel daubed a layer of white, 
representing snow, on one part of his picture, planted a 
fir-tree in a corner, and dressing an Egyptian in the 
costume of a grenadier of the Garde Imp£riale, christ- 
ened his picture : Passage of the Beresina. 

The jury, who had wiped their spectacles that day on 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 


267 


the lapels of their coats adorned with green palm-leaves, 
were not deceived by this new stratagem. They recog- 
nized the persistent canvas perfectly, particularly by a 
great devil of a horse of many colors that was rearing 
at one end of one of the waves of the Red Sea. That 
horse’s coat was used by Marcel for all his experiments 
in coloring, and in his familiar language he called it a 
synoptical table of fine tones , because he reproduced 
there, with all their play of light and shadow, all the 
most varied combinations of color. But once more the 
jury, unmoved by that detail, had not enough black balls 
to reject the Passage of the Beresina. 

“Very good,” said Marcel, “I expected it. Next 
year I’ll send it under the title of the Passage of the 
Panoramas." 

“They shall be taken in, taken in, ta — a — ken in,” 
sang Schaunard the musician to a new air of his own 
composition — a direful air, noisy as a scale of thunder- 
claps, the accompaniment to which was dreaded by all 
the neighboring pianos. 

“ How can they refuse it without all the vermilion on 
my Red Sea ascending to their faces and covering them 
with confusion? ” muttered Marcel, gazing at his picture. 
— “ When you think that there’s three hundred francs’ 
worth of paint in it and a million in genius, to say noth- 
ing of my joyous youth, now bald as my hat ! A serious 
work which opens new horizons to the science of varnish. 
But they shall not have the last word ; while my breath 


268 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


lasts I’ll send them my picture. I propose that it shall 
be engraved on their memories.” 

“That’s the surest way of never engraving it there,” 
said Gustave Colline plaintively; and he added, s otto 
voce : “ that’s very good — very good — I’ll repeat it at 
the clubs.” 

Marcel continued his imprecations, which Schaunard 
continued to set to music. 

“Ah! so they won’t receive me!” said Marcel. 
“ The government pays them and boards them and gives 
them the Cross, for the sole purpose of refusing once a 
year, on the first of March, to accept a canvas of mine 
stretched on a keyed frame. — I see their idea distinctly, 
I see it very distinctly ; they want to make me break my 
brushes. They hope perhaps that by refusing my Red 
Sea , they can drive me to throw myself out of the win- 
dow in despair. But they are ill acquainted with my 
manly heart, if they expect to take me in by that com- 
monplace trick. After this I won’t wait till the time for 
the Salon. From this day forth my work is the picture 
of Damocles constantly suspended over their lives. 
Henceforth I propose to send it once a week to each of 
them, at their homes, in the bosom of their families, in 
the sanctity of private life. It shall disturb their domes- 
tic joys, it shall cause their wine to taste sour, their roast 
meat to taste burned and their wives to be a source 
of bitterness. They shall all go mad and that right 
soon, and they shall go to the Institute in strait-jackets 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 269 

on the day of their meeting. That idea smiles upon 
me.” 

Some days after this, when Marcel had already forgot- 
ten his direful schemes of revenge against his persecu- 
tors, he received a call from old M£dicis. Such was the 
name bestowed by the club on a Jew named Solomon, 
who, at that time, was very well known to all artistic and 
literary Bohemia, with which he had constant dealings. 
Pere MMicis dealt in all sorts of bric-a-brac. He sold 
complete outfits of furniture from twelve francs to three 
thousand. He bought all kinds of things and sold them 
all again at a profit. Monsieur Proudhon’s bank of ex- 
change is a very small affair when compared with the 
system practised by M^dicis, who possessed the genius 
of traffic to a degree never before reached by the 
shrewdest of his race. His shop on Place du Carrousel 
was a magic spot where one could find anything he 
might desire. All the products of nature, all the crea- 
tions of art, everything that issues from the bowels of 
the earth and from the genius of man, was an object of 
sale or exchange with M6dicis. His business included 
everything, absolutely everything that exists — indeed he 
dealt in the ideal . He purchased ideas, to put them in 
practice himself, or to sell again. Known to all men of 
letters and all artists, an intimate friend of the palette 
and familiar with the writing-desk, he was the Asmodeus 
of the arts. He would sell you cigars for the rough draft 
of a novel, slippers for a sonnet, fresh fish for paradoxes ; 


270 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


he talked by the hour at so much the hour with writers 
paid to retail society scandal in the newspapers ; he 
would procure tickets for you to the galleries of the 
chambers of Parliament and invitations to private parties ; 
he let lodgings by the night or week or month to home- 
less embryo artists, who paid him in copies of the great 
masters at the Louvre. The wings had no mysteries for 
him. He could get your plays accepted at the theatres ; 
he could obtain favors for you from the managers. He 
carried in his head a copy of the Almanach of twenty- 
five thousand addresses, and knew the names, residences 
and secrets of all the celebrities, even the most obscure. 

A few pages copied from the waste-book of his books 
of account, will afford a better idea than all the general 
statements in the world of the universality of his busi- 
ness. 

“ 20th March, 184 — ” 

“ Sold to M. L , antiquary, the compass used by 

Archimedes during the siege of Syracuse, 75 fr.” 

“ Bought of M. V , journalist, the complete works, 

uncut, of M. , member of the Academy, 10 fr.” 

“ Sold to the same, a critical article on the complete 
works of M. , member of the Academy, 30 fr.” 

“ Sold to M. , member of the Academy, a news- 

paper article of twelve columns on his complete works, 
250 fr.” 


“ Bought of M. R , man of letters, a critical es- 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 


271 


timate of the complete works of M. , member of 

the Academy, 10 fr. ; plus 50 pounds coal and 2 kilog. 
coffee.” 

“ Sold to M. , a porcelain vase that belonged to 

Mme. du Barry, 18 fr.” 

“ Bought of little D , her hair, 15 fr.” 

“ Sold to M. B , one lot of articles on morals and 

the last three mistakes in spelling made by M. le pr£fet 
de la Seine, 6 fr. ; plus a pair of Neapolitan shoes.” 

“ Sold to M’lle O , a light wig, 120 fr.” 

“ Sold to M. M , historical painter, a series of lively 

sketches, 25 fr.” 

“ Informed M. Ferdinand the hour at which Madame 

la Baronne R de P goes to mass. Let to the 

same, for one day, the small entresol in Faubourg Mont- 
martre, total 30 fr.” 

“ Sold to M. Isidore, his portrait as Apollo, 30 fr.” 

“ Sold to M’lle R , one pair of lobsters and six pairs 

of gloves, 36 fr. (Reed. 2 fr. 75 c.).” 

“ Procured for the same, credit for six months from 
Mme. , milliner. (Price to be settled hereafter.)” 

“ Procured for Mme. , milliner, the patronage of 

M’lle R . (Received for this, three yards of velvet 

and six ells of lace.)” 

“ Bought of M. R , man of letters, a claim of 120 

fr. against the newspaper, now in course of winding 

up, 5 fr. ; plus 2 pounds of Moravian tobacco.” 

“Sold to M. Ferdinand, 2 love letters, 12 fr.” 


272 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Bought of M. J , painter, portrait of M. Isidore 

as Apollo, 6 fr.” 

“ Bought of M. , 7 5 kilogrammes of his work 

entitled Submarine Revolutions, 15 fr.” 

“ Let to Madame la Comtesse de G , a Saxony 

table service, 20 fr.” 

“ Bought of M. , journalist, 5 2 lines in his Cour- 

rier de Paris, 100 fr. ; plus a set of chimney ornaments.” 

“ Sold to MM. O and Company, 5 2 lines in M. 

’s Courrier de Paris, 300 fr. ; plus a set of chimney 

ornaments.” 

“ Let to M’lle S G , for one day, a bed and a 

coupe — no charge. (See M’lle S G ’s account, 

ledgers fol. 26 & 27.)” 

“ Bought of M. Gustave C , a memorial on the 

linen industry, 50 fr. ; plus a rare edition of the works of 
Flavius Josephus.” 

“ Sold to M’lle S G , a set of modem furni- 

ture, 5,000 fr.” 

“For the same, paid a bill at the druggist’s, 75 fr.” 

“Id. Paid a bill at the dairy- woman’s, 3 fr. 85 c.” 

“ Etc., etc., etc.” 

These extracts will serve to show the vast range of the 
business transacted by the Jew M£dicis, who, notwith- 
standing the slightly illicit details of his eminently eclec- 
tic operations, had never been disturbed by any person. 

As he entered the apartment of the Bohemians with 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 273 

the knowing air that distinguished him, the Jew guessed 
that he arrived at an opportune time. In fact, the four 
friends were at that moment holding a council, and, 
under the presidency of a ferocious appetite, were dis- 
cussing the serious question of bread and meat. It was 
a Sunday ! and the end of the month. Fatal day and 
ominous date. 

M^dicis’ appearance was therefore welcomed by a 
joyous shout, for they knew that the Jew was too nig- 
gardly with his time to squander it in visits of courtesy, 
so that his presence always announced business to be 
discussed. 

“ Good evening, messieurs,” said the Jew; “how goes 
the world with you? ” 

“Colline,” said Rodolphe, who was stretched out on 
the bed, drowsily enjoying the beauties of the horizontal 
line, “perform the duties enjoined by hospitality and 
offer our guest a chair ; a guest is sacred. I salute you 
in Abraham,” he added. 

Colline seized an armchair, which had the springiness 
of bronze, and pushed it toward the Jew, saying in a 
hospitable voice : 

“ Imagine for a moment that you are Cinna and take 
this seat.” 

M£dicis dropped into the chair, and was on the point 
of complaining of its hardness, when he happened to re- 
member that he had himself transferred it to Colline in 

exchange for a profession of faith, subsequently sold to a 
18 


274 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


deputy, who had not the knack of extemporaneous 
speaking. As he took his seat, the Jew’s pockets gave 
forth a silvery ring, and the melody cast the four Bohe- 
mians into a delicious reverie. 

“Let’s hear the song now,” said Rodolphe to Marcel 
in an undertone ; “ the accompaniment seems very 
pretty.” 

“ Monsieur Marcel,” said Medicis, “I have come here 
solely to make your fortune. That is to say, I come to 
offer you a magnificent opportunity of entering the 
artistic world. Art, you see, Monsieur Marcel, is a bar- 
ren desert, in which glory is the oasis.” 

“ Pere Medicis,” said Marcel, on the hot coals of im- 
patience, “ in the name of your revered patron, Fifty- 
per-cent., be brief.” 

“Yes,” said Colline, “brief as King Pepin, who was a 
circumcised gentleman like yourself ; for you ought to be 
circumcised, O son of Jacob ! ” 

“ Oh ! oh ! oh ! ” ejaculated the Bohemians, looking 
to see if the floor would not open to swallow up the 
philosopher. 

But Colline was not swallowed up that time. 

“ This is how it is,” continued Medicis. “ A wealthy 
amateur, who is putting together a gallery destined to 
make the tour of Europe, has employed me to procure 
for him a series of noteworthy works. I have come to 
offer you admission to that museum. In a word, I have 
come to buy your Passage of the Red Sea. 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 


275 


“Cash down?” queried Marcel. 

“ Cash,” replied the Jew, starting up the orchestra in 
his pockets. 

“ Are you content? ” 12 said Colline. 

“ Certainly,” said Rodolphe fiercely. “ We must get a 
choke-pear to stop up that beggar’s vent-hole for idiotic 
remarks . 11 You brigand, don’t you know that he’s talking 
about crowns ? Is nothing sacred to you, atheist? ” 

Colline climbed on a table and assumed the pose of 
Harpocrates, the God of Silence. 

“ Go on, M£dicis,” said Marcel, pointing to his pic- 
ture. “ I propose to leave to you the honor of fixing for 
yourself the price of that work, which is beyond price.” 

The Jew laid on the table fifty crowns in bright new 
silver. 

“Well?” said Marcel, “there’s the advance guard.” 

“Monsieur Marcel,” said M£dicis, “you are well 
aware that my first word is always my last. I shall add 
nothing to that ; reflect : fifty crowns make one hundred 
and fifty francs. That’s a round sum ! ” 

“A paltry sum,” rejoined the artist; “there’s fifty 
crowns’ worth of cobalt just in Pharaoh’s robe. At least 
pay me for my work, equalize the piles, round out the 
figure and I’ll call you Leo X., Leo X. twice over.” 

“That’s my ultimatum,” said M£dicis. “I won’t give 
another sou; but I invite you all to dinner, with as 
many kinds of wine as you want, and I’ll pay for the 
dessert in gold.” 


276 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“Do I hear any more?” shouted Colline, striking the 
table thrice with his fist. “ Gone ! ” 

“All right,” said Marcel ; “agreed.” 

“ I will send for the picture to-morrow,” said the Jew. 
“ Let us go, messieurs ; the table is set.” 

The four friends went downstairs, singing the chorus 
from Les Huguenots : A table , a table ! 

M£dicis entertained the Bohemians in royal fashion. 
He offered them a multitude of things, all of which had 
been unpublished before that time so far as they were 
concerned. At that dinner the lobster ceased to be a 
myth to Schaunard, and he then and there contracted 
what might be called a delirious passion for that am- 
phibious creature. 

The four friends went forth from that sumptuous ban- 
quet as drunk as a day in grape-picking time. Indeed, 
that drunkenness came near having deplorable results in 
Marcel’s case, for, as he passed his tailor’s shop at two 
o’clock in the morning, he insisted upon waking him to 
pay him on account the 150 francs he had received. A 
gleam of reason which still illuminated Colline’s mind 
caught the artist on the edge of the precipice. 

A week after that festival, Marcel learned in what gal- 
lery his picture had taken its place. As he was passing 
through Faubourg Saint Honore, he stopped in the 
centre of a group of people who seemed to be watching 
with interest the operation of placing a sign over a shop. 
That sign was nothing else than Marcel’s picture, which 


THE PASSAGE OF THE RED SEA 


2 77 

M£dicis had sold to a dealer in food products. But the 
Passage of the Red Sea had undergone still another mod- 
ification, and bore a new title. A steamboat had been 
added, and the picture was called : In the Harbor of 
Marseilles . A flattering ovation from the bystanders 
greeted the unveiling of the picture. Wherefore Marcel 
returned home, overjoyed by his triumph, murmuring, 
Vox populiy vox dei . 



THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


Mademoiselle Mimi, who was accustomed to sleep 
late, awoke one morning on the stroke of ten, and was 
greatly surprised not to see Rodolphe by her side or any- 
where in the room. She had seen him at his desk the 
night before, before she went to sleep, preparing to pass 
the night on an extra literary task which he had been 
engaged to perform, and in the completion of which 
Mimi was particularly interested. In fact, the poet had 
given her reason to hope that he would purchase for her 
out of the proceeds of his toil, a certain spring dress 
which she had once seen at Les Deux Magots, a famous 
establishment for novelties, at whose show-windows Mimi’s 
coquetry frequently performed its devotions. So that, 
since the work had been begun, Mimi had been extremely 
anxious concerning its progress. She would often go to 
Rodolphe while he was writing, and would gravely ask, 
looking over his shoulder : 

“ Well, is my dress getting on?” 

“ One sleeve’s already made, be calm,” Rodolphe 
would reply. 


280 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


One night, having heard Rodolphe snap his fingers, 
which ordinarily indicated that he was satisfied with his 
work, Mimi suddenly sat up in bed and cried, putting 
her brown head between the curtains : 

“ Is my dress done? ” 

* ‘ Look,” said Rodolphe, showing her four great pages 
covered with lines crowded together, “ I have just fin- 
ished the waist.” 

“ What fun! ” said Mimi, “now there is only the skirt 
left; how many pages like that to make a skirt? ” 

“ That depends ; but as you’re not very tall, perhaps 
we can make a suitable skirt with ten pages of fifty lines 
of thirty- three letters.” 

“ I’m not tall, that’s true,” said Mimi in all serious- 
ness ; “ but I don’t want to look as if I were crying for 
more material ; dresses are worn very full now, and I’d 
like to have a long train to make a frou-frou .” 

“ Very well,” rejoined Rodolphe gravely, “ I’ll put ten 
more letters to the line and we’ll have the frou-frou." 

And Mimi went to sleep again in high spirits. 

As she had been imprudent enough to speak to her 
friends, Mesdemoiselles Musette and Ph£mie, of the beau- 
tiful dress Rodolphe was making for her, those two young 
women did not fail to interview Messieurs Marcel and 
Schaunard concerning their friend’s generous treatment 
of his mistress ; and their disclosures were followed by 
unmistakable hints to them to follow the example set by 
the poet. 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


281 


“That is to say,” added Mademoiselle Musette, pull- 
ing Marcel’s moustache, “ that is to say, if things go on 
for a week like this, I shall be obliged to borrow a pair 
of your trousers to wear out of doors.” 

“There’s eleven francs due me from a good concern,” 
replied Marcel ; “ if I collect that amount, I will devote 
it to the purchase of a stylish fig-leaf.” 

“And what about me?” Ph£mie said to Schaunard. 
“ My peigne noir — she could not say peignoir — is drop- 
ping to pieces.” 

Schaunard thereupon took three sous from his pocket 
and gave them to his mistress. 

“ Here’s something to buy a needle and thread,” he 
said. “ Mend your blue peignoir ; that will afford in- 
struction and amusement at the same time — utile dulcil' 

Nevertheless, in a council held behind closed doors, 
Marcel and Schaunard agreed with Rodolphe that each 
of them would do his utmost to gratify the reasonable 
coquettish instincts of his mistress. 

“ Poor girls,” said Rodolphe, “ a mere nothing is enough 
for them, but they must have that nothing. For some 
time past, literature and the fine arts have been doing 
very well ; we earn almost as much as porters.” 

“ It is perfectly true that I can’t complain,” interposed 
Marcel, “ the fine arts are in excellent health ; one 
would think we were living under Leo X.” 

“ I remember,” said Rodolphe, “ Musette told me 
that for a week you have been going away in the morn- 


282 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


ing and not coming home till night. Have you really a 
job on hand? ” 

“ A fine job, my dear fellow, that M£dicis got for me. I 
am painting portraits at the Ave Maria barracks — eighteen 
grenadiers, who have ordered their pictures at six francs 
apiece all round, resemblance warranted for a year, like 
watches. I hope to get the whole regiment. It was my 
purpose to dress Musette up when M£dicis pays me, for 
I made the bargain with him, not with my subjects.” 

“As for me,” said Schaunard carelessly, “although 
you wouldn’t think it, I have two hundred francs sleep- 
ing.” 

“ Sacrebleu / let’s wake them up,” said Rodolphe. 

“ In two or three days I expect to receipt for them,” 
said Schaunard. “ I will not conceal from you that I 
propose, when I leave the bank, to give free rein to cer- 
tain of my passions. Above all, there is a nankeen coat 
at the second-hand shop close by, and a hunting horn, 
which have been tickling my eye for a long while; I 
shall certainly pay my respects to them.” 

“ But where do you expect to get this extensive capi- 
tal?” asked Marcel and Rodolphe at the same time. 

“ Listen, messieurs,” said Schaunard, adopting a 
solemn demeanor and sitting down between his two 
friends, “we cannot conceal from one another the fact 
that, before we become members of the Institute and 
tax-payers, we still have considerable rye bread to eat, 
and the daily loaf is hard to knead. On the other hand. 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


283 


we are not alone ; as heaven has endowed us with sensi- 
bility, each of us has selected a companion, whom he has 
invited to share his lot.” 

“ Preceded by a herring,” suggested Marcel. 

“ Now,” continued Schaunard, “ while living with the 
strictest economy, it is hard to save when you possess 
nothing, especially if your appetite is always larger than 
your plate.” 

“What are you driving at?” queried Rodolphe. 

“At this,” replied Schaunard, “that situated as we 
are, we should all make a mistake to turn up our noses 
when an opportunity presents itself, even outside our 
art, to place a figure before the zero which constitutes our 
joint assets ! ” 

“Very good!” rejoined Marcel; “which one of us 
can you reproach with turning up his nose? Great 
painter as I shall be some day, have I not consented 
to devote my brush to the reproduction of French war- 
riors who pay me with their pocket pieces? It seems to 
me that I am not afraid to descend the ladder of my 
future greatness.” 

“And as for me,” added Rodolphe, “don’t you know 
that for the last two weeks I have been composing a 
didactic medico- surgico-ivory poem for a famous dentist, 
who subsidizes my inspiration at the rate of fifteen sous 
per dozen alexandrines— a little dearer than oysters? 
But I don’t blush for it ; rather than have my muse sit 
with her hands folded, I would willingly let her put the 


284 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Paris Guide into song. When one has a lyre — deuce 
take me — it’s for use. And then Mimi is thirsty for 
boots.” 

“In that case,” said Schaunard, “you won’t be angry 
when you know the source of the Pactolus, whose over- 
flowing I await.” 

The history of Schaunard’s two hundred francs was as 
follows : 

About a fortnight before, he had called on a music pub- 
lisher who had promised to obtain for him, among his 
customers, pupils for the piano, or employment in the way 
of tuning. 

“ Parbleu / you come most opportunely,” said the 
publisher when he appeared. “ Somebody came here to- 
day to ask about a pianist. He’s an Englishman, and I 
think he’ll pay you well. Are you really a good per- 
former? ” 

Schaunard thought that a modest manner might injure 
him in his publisher’s estimation. Indeed, a modest 
musician, especially a pianist, is a very rare thing. So 
Schaunard replied coolly : 

“ I am one of the best ; if I only had one weak lung, 
long hair and a black coat, I should be as celebrated as 
the sun to-day, and instead of charging me eight hundred 
francs to print the score of my Young Girl's Death , you 
would come and kneel to me and offer me three thou- 
sand on a silver salver. It is a fact,” he continued, “ that 
my ten fingers, having done ten years of penal servitude 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 285 

on the five octaves, I handle the flats and sharps very 
agreeably.” 

The person to whom Schaunard was directed was an 
Englishman named Birn’n. 13 The musician was received 
in the first place by a lackey in blue, who presented him 
to one in green, who handed him on to one in black, who 
ushered him into a salon, where he found himself face to 
face with an islander, curled up in a splenetic attitude, 
which made him resemble Hamlet reflecting on what 
petty creatures we are. Schaunard was preparing to ex- 
plain his presence, when he was cut short by a succession 
of piercing shrieks. This horrible ear-splitting noise pro- 
ceeded from a parrot swinging on a perch on the balcony 
of the floor below. 

“ Oh ! that beast ! that beast ! that beast ! ” muttered 
the Englishman, leaping from his chair ; “ it will kill me.” 

At the same instant the bird began to go through his 
repertory, which was much more extensive than that of 
the ordinary parrot ; and Schaunard was dumfounded 
when he heard the creature, spurred on by a female voice, 
begin to declaim the first lines of the narrative of Thera- 
menesj with the intonations of the Conservatory. 

The parrot was the pet of an actress who was very 
much in vogue in her boudoir. She was one of the 
women who, no one knows how or why, are quoted at fab- 
ulous prices on the turf of gallantry, and whose names are 
inscribed on the menus of bachelor suppers, where they 
act as a living dessert. In our day it gives a Christian no- 


286 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


toriety to be seen with one of those pagan creatures, who 
often have nothing antique about them except their cer- 
tificate of birth. When they are pretty, no great harm 
is done after all ; the most that one risks is being brought 
to the gutter for supplying them with violet wood. But 
when their beauty is bought by the ounce at the perfum- 
er’s, and will not resist three drops of water on a rag, when 
their understanding is confined to a vaudeville ditty, and 
their talent lies in the hollow of the hand of a paid claqueur , 
it is difficult to understand how men of distinction, who 
sometimes have an illustrious name, common sense and 
a fashionable coat, can allow themselves to be carried 
so far by love, of the commonplace as to raise to the level 
of the most trivial caprice, creatures whom their Frontin 
would refuse to take for his Lisette. 

The actress in question was one of those ephemeral 
beauties. She called herself Dolores, and claimed to be 
a Spaniard, although she was born in that Parisian Anda- 
lusia, which is called Rue Coquenard. Although it is 
not ten minutes’ walk from Rue Coquenard to Rue de 
Provence, it had taken her seven or eight years to make 
the journey. Her prosperity had begun, and progressed 
with the decline of her physical charms. For instance, 
on the day when her first false tooth was inserted she had 
one horse, and two horses on the day the second was put 
in place. At the present time she was living in great 
style, had rooms in a Louvre on a small scale, kept the 
middle of the road on Longchamps days, and gave balls 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 287 

that all Paris attended. The “ all Paris ” of such ladies as 
she — that is to say, the collection of idlers who run after 
all the absurd stories and scandal ; the “ all Paris ” that 
plays at lansquenet and at making paradoxes, sluggards in 
brain and arm, who kill their own time and other peo- 
ple’s ; writers who become men of letters in order to 
utilize the feathers that nature has placed on their backs ; 
the bravoes of debauchery, gentlemen who play with 
marked cards, knights of mysterious orders, all of spectre- 
ridden Bohemia, come from no one knows where, to re- 
turn to the same place ; all the branded and listed crea- 
tures ; all the daughters of Eve who used to retail the 
maternal fruit in a basket, and who sell it now in bou- 
doirs ; the whole corrupt race, corrupt from swaddling- 
clothes to shroud, whom you see at first performances with 
Golconda on their brows and Thibet on their shoulders, 
and for whom nevertheless the first violets of spring and 
the first loves of beardless youth bloom and flourish. All 
this multitude which the chroniclers call “ all Paris ” was 
received by Mademoiselle Dolores, the mistress of the 
parrot in question. 

This bird, whose oratorical talents had made it fa- 
mous throughout the quarter, had gradually become the 
terror of its nearest neighbors. Passing its time on the bal- 
cony, it made of its perch a tribune from which it deliv- 
ered interminable harangues from morning till night. 
Some journalists who were intimate with its mistress, hav- 
ing taught it certain parliamentary formulas, the bird had 


2 88 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


become wonderfully well informed on the sugar question. 
It knew the actress’s repertory by heart, and repeated 
it so well that it could have taken her part in case she 
had been ill. Moreover, as she was a polyglot in her 
sentiments and received callers from all corners of the 
earth, the parrot spoke all languages, and sometimes 
uttered blasphemies in them, all of which would have made 
even the sailors blush to whom Vert- Vert owed his liberal 
education. The society of the bird, which was enter- 
taining and instructive for ten minutes perhaps, became 
insufferable torture when it was prolonged. The neigh- 
bors had complained several times ; but, after hearing 
their complaints, the actress insolently dismissed them. 
Two or three tenants, worthy fathers of families, in- 
dignant at the loose morals which the parrot’s out- 
spokenness revealed to them, went so far as to give 
notice to the landlord, whom the actress was shrewd 
enough to attack on his weak side. 

The Englishman into whose presence Schaunard was 
shown had possessed his soul in patience for three 
months. 

One day he dissembled his rage, which was on the 
point of breaking out, beneath a magnificent court cos- 
tume, and in such guise as he would have appeared be- 
fore Queen Victoria at a drawing-room at Windsor, he 
sent in his card to Mademoiselle Dolores. 

When he entered the room she thought at first that it 
was Hoffmann in the costume of Lord Spleen ; and, being 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 289 

desirous to extend a hearty welcome to a fellow actor, 
she invited him to breakfast. The Englishman answered 
her with perfect seriousness in the French in twenty-five 
lessons which a Spanish refugee had taught him. 

“ I accept your invitation on condition that we eat 
that — unpleasant bird,” and he pointed to the cage occu- 
pied by the parrot which, having already scented an 
islander, had greeted him by humming God Save the 
King. 

Dolores thought that her neighbor the Englishman had 
come to laugh at her, and she was preparing to lose her 
temper, when he added : 

“ As I am very rich I will 'set a price on the bird.” 

Dolores replied that she was attached to her bird and 
that she did not choose to have it go into another per- 
son’s hands. 

“Oh! I didn’t want to take it in my hands,” re- 
plied the Englishman ; “ I wanted to put it under my 
feet ! ” and he pointed to the heels of his boots. 

Dolores trembled with indignation and was about to fly 
into a rage, perhaps, when she noticed on the English- 
man’s finger a ring containing a diamond that represented 
something like twenty-five hundred francs a year. That 
discovery acted upon her wrath like a shower-bath. She 
reflected that it might perhaps be imprudent to lose her 
temper with a man who had fifty thousand francs on his 
little finger. 

“Well, monsieur,” she said, “as poor Coco pesters 

l 9 


290 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


you, I’ll put him in the back part of the house ; then you 
can’t hear him.” 

The Englishman made a gesture of satisfaction. 

“And yet,” he said, pointing to his boots, “I should 
have much preferred — ” 

“Have no fear,” said Dolores; “where I shall put 
him, it will be impossible for him to disturb milord.” 

“ Oh ! I’m not a lord. I am simply an esquire.” 

But just as Mr. Birn’n was making ready to retire, 
after bestowing a very respectful salutation upon her, 
Dolores, who never neglected her own interests, took up 
a small package from a table, and said to the English- 
man : 

“ Monsieur, I am to have a benefit this evening at the 

Theatre de , and I am to appear in three plays. 

Would you allow me to offer you a few box tickets? the 
price is only slightly increased.” 

And she placed ten tickets or more in the islander’s 
hands. 

“ After showing such readiness to oblige him,” she 
thought, “ if he’s a well-bred man, it isn’t possible for 
him to refuse me ; and if he sees me act in my pink cos- 
tume — who knows? between neighbors ! — that diamond 
he wears on his finger is the advance-guard of a 
million. My word, but he’s ugly and glum ; but it will 
give me a chance to go to London without being 
seasick.” 

The Englishman, after taking the tickets, asked to be 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


291 


told once more what use was to be made of them, and 
then asked the price. 

“ The boxes are sixty francs — there are ten there. But 
there’s no hurry,” Dolores added, as she saw the English- 
man feeling for his wallet ; “ I hope that, being a neigh- 
bor, you will do me the honor to pay me a little visit now 
and then.” 

“ I don’t like to do business on credit,” replied Mr. 
Birn’n; and, having produced a thousand-franc note, 
he placed it on the table and put the tickets in his 
wallet. 

“ I will give you the change,” said Dolores, opening a 
little chest in which she kept her money. 

“ Oh, no,” said the Englishman, “it’s a pour boire ; ” 
and he went out, leaving Dolores aghast at the words. 

(( Pour boire!” she cried, when she was alone. 
“ What a boor ! I’ll send back his money.” 

But her neighbor’s vulgarity had simply irritated the 
outer coating of her self-esteem ; reflection soothed her ; 
she reflected that twenty louis extra would make a very 
pretty bank , and that she had heretofore put up with im- 
pertinent remarks at a lower rate of compensation. 

“ Pshaw ! ” she said to herself, “ I mustn’t be so 
proud. No one saw me and this is my laundress’s day. 
After all, that Englishman handles the language so 
badly, perhaps he thought he was paying me a compli- 
ment.” And she gayly pocketed her twenty louis. 

But she returned home that evening after the play in 


292 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


a furious rage. Mr. Birn’n had not used the tickets and 
the ten boxes were empty. So that, when she went on 
the stage at half-past twelve, the unfortunate beneficiary 
read on the faces of her friends of the wings the joy 
they felt when they saw the hall so poorly filled. 

She even heard one of the actresses say, pointing to 
all the best boxes without an occupant : 

“ Poor Dolores has only made one proscenium box.” 

“There’s hardly anybody in the other boxes.” 

“The orchestra is empty.” 

“ Parbleu !” when people see her name on the 
placards it has the effect of a pneumatic machine on 
the house.” 

“What an absurd idea to increase the price of 
seats ! ” 

“A fine benefit ! I’ll bet you could put the receipts in 
a money-box or the heel of a stocking.” 

“ Ah ! she has on her famous dress with red velvet 
bows.” 

“ She looks like a dish of crawfish.” 

“ How much did you make at your last benefit? ” one 
actress asked a companion. 

“ A full house, my dear, and it was the day of a first 
performance ; the stools were worth a louis. But I only 
got six francs ; my milliner had the rest. If I weren’t so 
afraid of chilblains, I’d go to St. Petersburg.” 

“ What ! you’re not thirty years old, and you’re already 
thinking of doing Russia? ” 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


2 93 

“Why not?” said the other, and added: “Is your 
benefit to be soon ? ” 

“ In a fortnight. Three thousand francs’ worth of 
tickets are sold already, without counting my Saint-Cyr 
boys.” 

“ Look ! everybody in the orchestra is going.” 

“ Dolores is singing.” 

It was a fact that Dolores, red as her costume, was at 
that moment singing her couplet in a harsh, strident 
voice. She had hardly finished when two bouquets fell 
at her feet, thrown by two actresses, her very good 
friends, who leaned over the rail of their box, crying : 

“ Bravo, Dolores ! ” 

Her fury can readily be imagined. Upon returning 
home, although it was in the middle of the night, she 
opened her window and woke Coco, who woke excellent 
Mr. Birn’n, who was sleeping peacefully on the faith of 
her promise. 

From that day, war was declared between the actress 
and the Englishman, war to the knife without rest or 
truce, in which the parties engaged were deterred by no 
question of expense. The parrot, having received in- 
structions to that end, had perfected itself in the lan- 
guage of Albion, and hurled insults at its neighbor all 
day long in its shrillest falsetto. In very truth it 
was something intolerable. Dolores suffered from 
it herself, but she hoped from one day to another that 
Mr. Birn’n would give notice : her self-esteem was bent 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


294 

upon attaining that result. The islander, for his part, 
invented all sorts of schemes to revenge himself. In the 
first place, he organized a school for drummers in his 
salon, but the commissioner of police interfered. Mr. 
Birn’n, exercising his ingenuity more and more persist- 
ently, thereupon established a shooting-gallery ; his ser- 
vants riddled about fifty pasteboard targets per day. 
Again the commissioner intervened, and called his atten- 
tion to an article in the Code forbidding the use of fire- 
arms in houses. Mr. Birn’n stopped the shooting. But 
a week later Mademoiselle noticed that it rained in her 
apartments. The landlord paid a visit to Mr. Birn’n, 
whom he found preparing to take salt-water baths in his 
salon. The room, which was very large, had been 
sheathed with zinc on all the walls ; all the doors were 
closed ; and into that improvised basin a hundred 
streams of water were turned and fifty quintals of salt 
dissolved therein. It was a veritable reproduction of 
the ocean. Nothing was lacking, not even the fish. 
The entrance was through an opening in the upper 
panel of the middle door, and Mr. Birn’n bathed there 
daily. In a short time, the odor of dead fish became 
noticeable in the quarter, and Mademoiselle Dolores had 
half an inch of water in her bedroom. 

The landlord was furious and threatened Mr. Birn’n 
with an action for the damage done to his property. 

“ Haven’t I the right to bathe in my own rooms ? ” 
asked the Englishman. 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


295 


“ No, monsieur.” 

“ If I haven’t the right, very well,” said the English- 
man, full of respect for the law of the country in which 
he lived. “ It’s a pity, for I enjoyed it very much.” 

That very evening he gave orders to draw off his 
ocean. It was high time ; there was already a bed 
of oysters on the floor. 

However, Mr. Birn’n did not abandon the struggle, 
but looked about for some legitimate method of contin- 
uing this strange war, which furnished entertainment for 
the whole of idle Paris ; for the affair had become known 
in the theatre green-rooms and other public places. So 
Dolores considered it a point of honor to emerge trium- 
phant from the struggle, the result of which was made 
the subject of wagers. 

Then it was that Mr. Birn’-n thought of the piano. 
And it was not such a bad idea : the most disagreeable 
of instruments was a fitting adversary for the most dis- 
agreeable of birds. And so, as soon as that bright idea 
occurred to him, he lost no time in putting it into execu- 
tion. He hired a piano and inquired for a pianist. The 
pianist, it will be remembered, was our friend Schaunard. 
The Englishman described in familiar language his suf- 
ferings on account of his neighbor’s parrot, and all that 
he had already done in his attempts to bring the actress 
to a settlement. 

“But, milord,” said Schaunard, “there’s one sure way 
of getting rid of the beast, and that is parsley. All 


296 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


chemists agree in saying that that product of the kitchen 
garden is the prussic acid of those creatures ; chop up 
some parsley in your rug and have it shaken out of the 
window on Coco’s cage : he will expire exactly as if he 
had been invited to dinner by Pope Alexander VI.” 

“ I have thought of that, but the beast is watched,” 
replied the Englishman; “the piano’s the surest way.” 

Schaunard gazed at the Englishman, for at first he did 
not understand. 

“This is what I have thought of,” continued the 
Englishman. “ The actress and her pet sleep till noon. 
Just follow my reasoning — ” 

“ I propose to disturb her slumbers. The laws of this 
country allow me to have music from morning till night. 
Do you understand what I expect of you? ” 

“ But,” said Schaunard, “ it wouldn’t be so unpleasant 
for the actress to hear me play the piano all day, and for 
nothing too. I am one of the best, and if I only had 
one weak lung, — ” 

“ Oho ! ” the Englishman interrupted him. “ In that 
case, I shall not tell you to play good music, but just to 
hammer on your instrument. Like this,” he added, 
trying a scale ; “ and always, always the same thing, 
monsieur le musicien, the scale over and over again 
without pity. I know a little about medicine, and that 
drives people mad. It will drive them mad, and that 
is what I count on. Come to work at once, monsieur ; 
I will pay you well.” 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


297 

“And that,” said Schaunard, after telling his comrades 
all the details we have set down, “ that is the trade I 
have been following for a fortnight. One scale, the same 
thing over and over again, from five in the morning until 
night. It isn’t just what you would call serious art ; but 
what would you have, my children ? the Englishman pays 
me two hundred francs a month for my drumming ; one 
must long to be his own hangman to refuse such a wind- 
fall. I accepted, and in two or three days I go to the 
treasury to draw my first month’s salary. 

It was after this mutual exchange of confidences that 
the three friends agreed among themselves to take ad- 
vantage of the general increase of income to provide 
their mistresses with the spring outfit that each of 
them had coveted so long. They agreed, furthermore, 
that the one who received his money first should wait 
for the others, so that the purchases might be made at 
the same time, and that Mesdemoiselles Musette, 
Mimi and Ph£mie might enjoy together the pleasure 
of putting on their new skins , as Schaunard expressed 
it. 

Two or three days after this council, Rodolphe had 
the pole. His dental ivory poem had been paid for and 
it weighed eighty francs. Two days later, Marcel gave 
M£dicis a receipt for the price of eighteen corporal’s 
portraits at six francs. 

Marcel and Rodolphe had the utmost difficulty in con- 
cealing their good fortune. 


298 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ It seems to me as if I were sweating gold,” said the 
poet. 

“The same with me,” said Marcel. “If Schaunard 
delays long it will be impossible for me to keep up my 
role of anonymous Croesus.” 

But the very next morning the Bohemians saw Schau- 
nard appear gorgeously attired in a jacket of golden 
yellow nankeen. 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! ” cried Ph£mie, dazzled at the as- 
pect of her lover so sumptuously bound, “ where did you 
get that coat? ” 

“ I found it among my papers,” the musician replied, 
motioning to his two friends to follow him from the 
room. 

“I have it,” he cried, when they were alone. “See 
the piles ! ” and he displayed a handful of gold. 

“Good,” cried Marcel, “let’s be off! we’ll go and 
sack the shops ! How happy Musette will be ! ” 

“ How pleased Mimi will be ! ” added Rodolphe. 
“ Well, are you coming, Schaunard? ” 

“ Allow me to reflect,” replied the musician. “ It 
may be that we are doing a foolish thing to cover these 
young women with a quantity of fashionable gew-gaws. 
Think a moment. Aren’t you afraid that, when they re- 
semble the plates in L’Echarpe (Plris , such magnificence 
will exert a baleful influence on their characters ? and is 
it fitting for young men like ourselves to act with women 
as if we were tottering and wrinkled Mondors? It isn’t 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


2 99 

that I hesitate to sacrifice fourteen or eighteen francs on 
Phemie’s dress ; but I tremble to think that, when she 
has a new hat, perhaps she won’t care to bow to me any 
more ! She is so pretty with a flower in her hair ! What 
do you think about it, philosopher? ” he suddenly asked 
Colline, who had joined them a few moments before. 

“ Ingratitude is the daughter of kindness,” said the 
philosopher. 

“To look at it from another point of view,” continued 
Schaunard, “ when your mistresses are well dressed, what 
sort of figures will you cut in your shabby clothes, with 
them on your arms? You’ll look like their lady’s-maids. 
It isn’t on my own account that I say this,” added Schau- 
nard, drawing himself up in his nankeen coat ; “ for I can 
show myself anywhere now, thank God ! ” 

However, despite the spirit of opposition manifested 
by Schaunard, it was agreed anew that on the following 
day they should despoil all the dry-goods shops in the 
neighborhood for the benefit of the ladies. 

And so the next morning, just about the time when we 
saw Mademoiselle Mimi, at the beginning of this chap- 
ter, awake and seem greatly surprised at Rodolphe’s ab- 
sence, the poet and his two friends ascended the stairs 
of the lodging-house, attended by a clerk from Les Deux 
Magots and by a milliner, both of whom had samples of 
their wares. Schaunard, who had purchased the famous 
hunting-horn, marched in front, playing the overture 
from La Caravane. 


3 °° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Musette and Ph£mie, being summoned by Mimi, who 
lived on the entresol, hurried downstairs with the rapid- 
ity of an avalanche when they heard rumors of hats and 
dresses. When they saw all those paltry treasures dis- 
played before their eyes, the three women nearly went 
wild with joy. Mimi was seized with a fever of hilarity 
and jumped about like a goat, waving a little woollen 
scarf. Musette threw herself on Marcel’s neck, with a 
little green boot in each hand, striking them against 
each other like a pair of cymbals. Ph£mie looked at 
Schaunard, sobbing ; she could say nothing but : 

“ O my Alexandre ! my Alexandre ! ” 

“ There’s no danger that she’ll refuse Artaxerxes’ 
presents,” murmured Colline the philosopher. 

After the first outburst of jubilation had passed, when 
the selections were made and the bills paid, Rodolphe 
informed the three women that they must arrange to try 
on their new clothes the next day. 

“ We will go into the country,” he said. 

“What fun!” cried Musette, “it won’t be the first 
time that I’ve bought, cut, made and worn a dress the 
same day. Besides, we have the whole night. We’ll be 
ready, won’t we, mesdames? ” 

“We shall be ready,” cried Mimi and Ph6mie in the 
same breath. 

They set to work on the spot and for sixteen hours did 
not lay aside their scissors and needles. 

The next day was the first of May. The Easter bells 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


3 QI 


had sounded the resurrection of spring some days be- 
fore, and it was showing itself on every side, eager and 
joyous ; it came, as the German ballad says, as light 
of foot as the young fiance going to plant the May- 
pole under the window of his beloved. It painted the 
sky blue, the trees green and arrayed all nature in bright 
colors. It awoke the drowsy sun where he lay sleeping 
in his bed of mist, his head resting on the dense snow- 
clouds that served him for a pillow, and it cried to him : 

“ Ho there ! my friend ! the time has come and here 
am I ! to work and quickly ! Don without delay your 
fine coat made of bright new beams and show yourself at 
once on your balcony to announce my arrival.” 

Whereupon the sun took the field and stalked abroad 
as proud and haughty as a great lord at court. The 
swallows, returning from their pilgrimage to the East, 
filled the air ; the hawthorn whitened the hedges ; the 
violet perfumed the grass in the woods, where the birds 
were all leaving their nests with a sheet of ballads 
under their wings. It was the springtime in very 
truth, the springtime of poets and lovers and not 
the springtime of Matthieu Laensberg, the almanac- 
maker, a villainous springtime with a red nose, frost- 
bitten fingers, when the poor man still shivers in 
his chimney-corner where the last ashes of his last 
faggot have long since ceased to glow. Balmy breezes 
wafted through the clear atmosphere into the city the 
sweet odors of the surrounding fields. The sun’s rays, 


302 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


bright and warm, knocked at the closed windows. To 
the sick they said : “ Open, we are health ! ” and at the 
window of the attic where the maiden stood gazing into 
her mirror, that innocent first love of the most innocent, 
they said : “ Open, pretty one, and let us light up your 
beauty ! we are the heralds of fine weather ; you can now 
put on your linen dress, your straw hat and your dainty 
shoes : the groves where you go to dance are all decked 
out in their lovely new flowers, and the violins will wake 
for the Sunday ball. Good- morning, pretty one ! ” 

As the Angelus was ringing on the church near by, the 
three hard-working damsels, who had barely had time for 
a few hours’ sleep, were already before their mirrors, 
casting a last glance at their new costumes. 

They were all charming, dressed alike, and on their 
faces the same glow of satisfaction due to the gratification 
of a long-cherished desire. 

Musette especially was resplendently lovely. 

“I have never been so happy,” she said to Marcel; 
“ it seems as if the good Lord had packed all the hap- 
piness of my life into this moment, and all I fear is that 
there will be none left ! But never mind ! even where 
there’s no more, there will still be some. We know the 
receipt for making it,” she added gayly, as she kissed 
Marcel. 

There was one thing that distressed Ph£mie. 

“ I like the green grass and the little birds,” she said, 
“ but one never meets anybody in the country, and no- 


THE TOILET OF THE GRACES 


303 


body will see my pretty hat and my beautiful dress. 
Suppose we go into the country on the boulevard? ” 

At eight o’clock in the morning the whole street was 
aroused by the flourishes performed on the bugle by 
Schaunard, as the signal for departure. All the neighbors 
ran to their windows to watch the Bohemians pass. 
Colline, who was of the party, closed the procession, 
carrying the ladies’ umbrellas. An hour later, the whole 
joyous band was scattered among the fields of Fontenay- 
aux-Roses. 

When they returned to the house very late at night, 
Colline, who had performed the duties of treasurer 
during the day, announced that there were six francs 
which they had neglected to spend, and deposited that 
balance on the table. 

“What are we going to do with it? ” asked Marcel. 

“Suppose we buy a government bond?” said 
Schaunard. 












XVIII 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 

I 

Among the genuine Bohemians of the genuine Bo- 
hemia, I once knew one Jacques D ; he was a sculp- 

tor and gave promise of being very talented some day. 
But poverty did not give him time to fulfil his promise. 
He died of exhaustion in March 1844, at the Saint-Louis 
hospital, Sain te- Vic toire ward, bed No. 14. 

I knew Jacques at the hospital where I was myself de- 
tained by a long illness. Jacques possessed, as I have 
said, the material of which great talents are made, and 
yet he never showed any signs of self-conceit on that 
score. During the two months that I saw much of him, 
when he felt that he was cradled in the arms of death, I 
never once heard him complain, or indulge in lamenta- 
tions of the sort that make unappreciated artists ridicu- 
lous. He died without posing , with the ghastly grimace 
of the death agony on his face. Speaking of his death, I 
am reminded of one of the most horrible scenes I ever 

witnessed in that caravansary of human suffering. His 
20 (305) 


3°6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


father, being informed of what had happened, came to 
claim the body and haggled a long time over the thirty- 
six francs demanded by the governing board of the hos- 
pital. He haggled also over the charge for the service 
at the church, and so persistently that at last they took 
off six francs. When the time came to put the body in 
the coffin, the attendant removed the coarse covering 
belonging to the hospital, and asked a friend of the de- 
ceased who was present, for money with which to buy 
the winding-sheet. The poor devil, who had not a sou, 
went to Jacques’s father, who flew into a towering 
rage and asked if they would never cease to annoy 
him. 

The novice who was present at this unnatural discus- 
sion, cast a glance at the body and involuntarily uttered 
these gentle, artless words : 

“ O monsieur, we can’t bury him like that, poor boy ; 
it’s so cold ; at least give him a shirt, so that he needn’t 
go before the good Lord all naked.” 

The father gave the friend five francs to buy a shirt, 
but bade him go to an old-clothes shop on Rue Grange- 
aux-Belles, where they sold second-hand linen. 

“You can get it cheaper there,” he said. 

This heartless behavior on the part of Jacques’s father 
was explained to me later ; he was furious because his 
son had embraced an artistic career, and his anger did 
not cool even in presence of a coffin. 

But I am a long way from Mademoiselle Francine and 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


307 

her muff. To return to them : Mademoiselle Francine 
was Jacques’s first and only mistress. He did not live to 
grow old, for he was only twenty-three when his father 
proposed to allow him to be put in the ground naked. 
The story of his love was told me by Jacques himself, 
when he was No. 14 and I No. 16 in the Sainte-Vic- 
toire ward — a wretched place to die. 

Stay, reader ; before I begin the story, which would be a 
most interesting one if I could tell it as it was told me by 
my friend Jacques, let me smoke the old clay pipe he 
gave me the day the doctor forbade his smoking. But 
at night, when the attendant was asleep, my friend 
Jacques would borrow the pipe and ask me for a little 
tobacco ; one gets so tired at night in those great wards, 
when one is in pain and cannot sleep ! 

“ Only one or two puffs,” he would say to me ; and I 
would let him do as he wanted, and Sister Sainte- 
Genevieve did not seem to smell the smoke when she 
made her round. Ah ! good sister ! how gentle you 
were, and how lovely too when you came and sprinkled 
holy water over us ! We could see you coming in the 
distance, walking slowly under the dark arches, wrapped 
in your white veil, which fell in such graceful folds, and 
which our friend Jacques admired so. Ah ! good sister ! 
you were the Beatrice of that hell. Your consolations 
were so sweet that we always complained in order to be 
comforted by you. If my friend Jacques had not died 
one day when the snow was falling, he would have carved 


308 bohemian life 

a little Virgin for you to put in your cell, dear Sister 
Sainte- Genevieve ! ” 

A Reader. — “Well, what about the muff? I don’t 
see where the muff comes in.” 

Another Reader. — “And Mademoiselle Francine? 
where is she, pray? ” 

First Reader. — “This story isn’t very entertaining ! ” 

Second Reader. — “ Let’s see how it ends.” 

I ask your pardon, messieurs, my friend Jacques’s pipe 
led me into this digression. But, after all, I did not 
take an oath to make you laugh. Bohemia is not cheer- 
ful every day. 

Jacques and Francine met in a house on Rue de la 
Tour d’ Auvergne, where they happened to hire rooms at 
the same time, on the April quarter-day. 

It was a week before the artist and the young woman 
entered into those neighborly relations which are almost a 
matter of course when you live on the same floor ; however, 
before they had exchanged a single word they knew each 
other. Francine knew that her neighbor was a poor devil 
of an artist and Jacques had learned that his neighbor was 
a seamstress who had left her home to escape the unkind 
treatment of a stepmother. She performed miracles 
of economy to make both ends meet, as they say ; and, 
as she had never known what pleasure was, she had no 
longing for it. This is how they both fell victims to the 
common law of lodging-house partitions. 

One evening in April Jacques returned to his room, 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


309 


tired out, without food since the morning, and profoundly 
depressed, with one of those vague fits of depression 
which have no well-defined cause and which may 
seize you anywhere at any time ; a sort of apoplexy of 
the heart to which the unfortunate wretches who live 
alone are peculiarly subject. Jacques, who felt as if he 
would stifle in his narrow quarters, opened his window 
for a breath of fresh air. It was a lovely evening and 
the setting sun was displaying his melancholy panorama 
of fairyland over the hills of Montmartre. Jacques stood 
pensively at his window, listening to the winged chorus of 
the melodies of the springtime in the calm atmosphere 
of evening, and it increased his depression. As a raven 
flew croaking by, he remembered the time when the 
ravens brought bread to Elijah, the devout hermit, and 
the thought passed through his mind that ravens were no 
longer so charitable. Then, unable to endure it any longer, 
he closed his window, drew the curtain, and, as he had 
no money to buy oil, lighted a pitch candle which he 
had brought back from a trip to La Grande Chartreuse. 
More and more depressed, he filled his pipe. 

“ Luckily I still have tobacco enough to hide the pis- 
tol,” he muttered, and began to smoke. 

My friend Jacques must have been very melancholy 
that evening, to think of hiding the pistol. That was his 
last resort in great emergencies and it generally suc- 
ceeded. The method was as follows : Jacques smoked 
tobacco on which he sprinkled a few drops of laudanum, 


3 10 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


and he smoked until the cloud of smoke from his pipe 
was dense enough to hide all the objects in his little 
room, and especially a pistol that hung on the wall. It 
was a matter of some ten pipefuls. When the pistol was 
entirely invisible, it almost always happened that the 
smoke and laudanum combined put Jacques to sleep, 
and it often happened too that his depression abandoned 
him on the threshold of his dreams. 

But on the evening in question he used up all his to- 
bacco, the pistol was absolutely concealed, and Jacques 
was still bitterly depressed. On the other hand, Made- 
moiselle Francine, when she returned home that same 
evening, was extremely light-hearted, and her gayety was 
without cause, like Jacques’s melancholy; it was one of 
those bursts of joy which fall from Heaven and which the 
good Lord sends to gentle hearts. So Mademoiselle 
Francine was in excellent humor and was singing as she 
ascended the stairs. But, as she was about to open her 
door, a gust of wind came in at the open window in the 
hall and unceremoniously extinguished her light. 

“ Mon Dieu ! how annoying!” ejaculated the girl; 
“ now I must go down and up six flights again.” 

But, noticing the light shining under Jacques’s door, 
the instinct of indolence, coupled with a feeling of curi- 
osity, suggested to her that she should ask the artist for 
a light. She reflected that it was a service which neigh- 
bors render one another every day, and that there could 
be nothing improper about it. So she knocked gently 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


3 ir 

twice on Jacques’s door, which he opened, a little sur- 
prised by that late call. But she had hardly stepped into 
the room when the smoke with which it was filled suffo- 
cated her, and before she had succeeded in uttering a 
word, she fell fainting on a chair and dropped her candle 
and her key. It was midnight and everybody in the 
house was asleep. Jacques did not think it well to call 
for help, his first thought being that his neighbor might 
be compromised. He confined himself therefore to open- 
ing the window to admit a little air ; and, when he had 
sprinkled a few drops of water on the girl’s face, he saw 
her open her eyes and gradually come to herself. When 
she had entirely recovered consciousness, after about five 
minutes, Francine told the artist on what errand she had 
come, and apologized profusely for what had happened. 

“ Now that I have recovered,” she said, “ I can go 
back to my room.” 

He had already opened the door, when she noticed 
that not only had she forgotten to light her candle, but 
that she had not her key. 

“ How foolish I am ! ” she said as she put her candle 
to the pitch taper, “ I came in here to get a light and 
was going away without one.” 

But, as she spoke, the current of air caused by the 
open door and window, suddenly extinguished the taper, 
and the two young people were left in darkness. 

“One would think it was done on purpose,” said 
Francine. “ Pray, excuse me, monsieur, for causing you 


3 12 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


so much annoyance, and be good enough to strike a light 
so that I can find my key.” 

“ Certainly, mademoiselle,” said Jacques, feeling for 
the matches. 

He soon found them. But a strange thought passed 
through his mind ; he put the matches in his pocket, 
exclaiming : 

“Mon Dieu ! mademoiselle, here’s another difficulty. 
I haven’t a single match ; I used the last one when I 
came home.” 

“ It seems to me that that’s a cleverly planned strata- 
gem ! ” he thought. 

" Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ” exclaimed Francine, “ I 
can go to my room well enough without a candle ; it’s 
not large enough for me to lose myself in it. But I must 
have my key ; I beg you, monsieur, help me to find it : 
it must be on the floor.” 

“ Let us look, mademoiselle,” said Jacques. 

And there they were, both hunting for the lost key in 
the darkness ; but, as if guided by the same instinct, 
their hands, which were feeling about in the same place, 
met ten times a minute. And as they were equally awk- 
ward, they did not find the key. 

“The moon, which is behind the cloud just now, 
shines full into my chamber,” said Jacques. “ Let us 
wait a bit. It may give us some light soon.” 

As they waited for the moon to appear they began to 
talk. Conversation in the dark, in a small room, on a 


<ffijapter XIH'H- 


A gust of wind blew into the room and left on the 
sick girl's bed a yellow leaf, torn from the tree in the 
little courtyard. 

Francine drew aside the curtain and saw that the tree 
was completely bare. 

“ That is the last," she said, putting the leaf wider 
her pillow. 


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FRANCINE’S MUFF 


3 l 3 


night in spring ; conversation which is frivolous and un- 
meaning at first, but gradually approaches the chapter 
of confidences — you know what that leads to. The 
words become confused, filled with unspoken thoughts ; 
the voice sinks lower, words alternate with sighs. The 
hands meet and complete the thought that rises from 
the heart to the lips, and — Search your memories for 
the conclusion, O youthful couples. Remember, young 
man, remember, young woman — you who walk hand in 
hand to-day, and who had never seen each other two 
days ago. 

At last the moon emerged from behind the clouds 
and its white light filled the room ; Mademoiselle 
Francine started from her reverie with a little shriek. 

“What’s the matter?” queried Jacques, putting his 
arm around her waist. 

“Nothing,” whispered Francine; “ I thought I heard 
someone knock.” And, unseen by Jacques, she kicked 
the key, which she had just discovered, under the table. 

She did not choose to find it. 

* * * * * * 

First Reader. — “ I certainly won’t let this story fall 
into my daughter’s hands.” 

Second Reader. — “ Thus far I haven’t seen a hair of 
Mademoiselle Francine’s muff ; and, as for the girl 
herself, I have no idea what she looks like, whether 
she’s fair or dark.” 


3^4 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Patience, O readers, patience ! I promised you a 
muff and I will give it to you finally, as my friend 
Jacques did to his poor dear Francine, who had become 
his mistress as I explained in the above line left blank. 
She was fair, was Francine, fair and light of heart — 
an unusual combination. She had known nothing of 
love until she was twenty ; but a vague foreboding of 
her approaching end impelled her to delay no longer if 
she wished to know it. 

She met Jacques and loved him. Their liaison lasted 
six months. They took each other in the spring, they 
parted in the autumn ; Francine was consumptive ; she 
knew it and her friend Jacques knew it. too; a fort- 
night after taking up with her, he learned it from one 
of his friends who was a doctor. “ She will go when 
the leaves turn,” he said. 

Francine overheard the conversation and remarked 
her friend’s consequent despair. 

“What do we care about the turning leaves?” she 
said, putting all her love into a smile ; « What do we 
care for the autumn? it’s summer now and the leaves 
are green, let’s make the most of it, my dear. When 
you see that I am ready to leave the world, you must 
take me in your arms and kiss me and forbid my 
going. I am obedient, you know, and I will stay.” 

And in that spirit the lovely creature endured the 
privations of life in Bohemia for five months, a song 
and a smile forever on her lips. Jacques allowed him- 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


315 

self to be deceived. His medical friend often said to 
him : “ Francine is failing, she needs the best of care.” 
Thereupon Jacques would travel all over Paris to ob- 
tain the wherewithal to buy the doctor’s prescriptions ; 
but Francine would have nothing to do with them and 
threw the drugs out of the window. At night, when 
she had a fit of coughing, she would leave the room 
and go into the hall so that Jacques should not hear 
her. 

One day, when they had gone into the country to- 
gether, Jacques noticed a tree on which the leaves 
were turning yellow. He glanced sorrowfully at Fran- 
cine, who was walking slowly and seemed to be musing. 

She saw Jacques turn pale and guessed the cause of 
his pallor. 

“ You’re a silly boy ! ” she said, kissing him, “it’s only 
July ; from now to October is three months ; by loving 
each other night and day, as we do, we shall double the 
time we have to be together. And even then, if I feel 
worse when the leaves are yellow, we’ll go and live in a 
forest of firs — their leaves are always green.” 

In October, Francine was obliged to take to her bed. 
Jacques’s friend attended her. The tiny room in which 
they lived was located at the top of the house and 
looked on a courtyard in which there was a tree which 
became barer and barer every day. Jacques had hung 
a curtain at the window to hide the tree from the 


316 bohemian life 

invalid; but Francine insisted that the curtain should 
be taken away. 

“O my dear,” she said to Jacques, “ I will give you a 
hundred times more kisses than it has leaves.” — And 
she added : “ I am getting much better, too. I shall 
go out soon ; but as it will be cold and I don’t want 
to have red hands, you must buy me a muff.” Through- 
out her illness that muff was her only dream. 

On the eve of All Saints’ Day, seeing that Jacques 
was more despairing than ever, she attempted to en- 
courage him ; and, to prove that she was getting better, 
she sat up. 

The doctor arrived at that moment and forced her 
to lie down again. 

“ Courage, Jacques ! ” he whispered in his friend’s 
ear, “ it’s all over, Francine is dying.” 

Jacques burst into tears. 

“ You can give her whatever she asks for now,” con- 
tinued the doctor ; “ there is no hope.” 

Francine heard with her eyes what the doctor said to 
her lover. 

“Don’t listen to him,” she cried, holding out her arms 
to Jacques, “ don’t listen to him, he lies. We will go 
out together to-morrow — it’s All Saints’ Day ; . it will 
be cold, so go and buy me a muff. I beg you to, for 
I am afraid of chilblains this winter.” 

Jacques was going out with his friend, but Francine 
detained the doctor. 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


317 

“Go and get my muff,” she said to Jacques; “get 
a fine one, so that it will last a long while.” 

When she was alone with the doctor she said to 
him : 

“ O monsieur, I am dying and I know it. But think 
of something that will give me strength for one night, 
I implore you; make me beautiful again for just one 
night and then let me die, as the good Lord does not 
choose that I shall live longer.” 

As the doctor was doing his best to soothe her, a 
gust of wind blew into the room and left on the sick 
girl’s bed a yellow leaf, tom from the tree in the little 
courtyard. 

Francine drew aside the curtain and saw that the 
tree was completely bare. 

“That is the last,” she said, putting the leaf under 
her pillow. 

“You will not die until to-morrow,” said the doc- 
tor, “you have a night to yourself.” 

“ Ah ! what happiness ! ” said the girl ; — “ a winter 
night — it will be a long one.” 

Jacques returned ; he brought a muff. 

“ It’s a very pretty one,” said Francine ; “ I will 
carry it when I go out.” 

She passed the night with Jacques. 

As the midday Angelus was ringing on the following 
day, All Saints’, she was taken with the death agony, 
and her whole body began to tremble. 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


3i8 

“ My hands are cold,” she murmured ; “give me 
my muff.” And she buried her poor hands in the fur. 

“This is the end,” the doctor said to Jacques ; 
“go and kiss her.” 

Jacques put his lips to his mistress’s. At the last 
moment they attempted to take away the muff, but she 
clung to it. 

“No, no,” she said ; “let me keep it; it’s winter; I 
am cold. O my poor Jacques ! O my poor Jacques ! 
what is going to become of you? O my God ! ” 

And the next day Jacques was alone. 

First Reader.— “ I told you this was not a lively 
story.” 

What would you have, reader ? one cannot always 
laugh. 


II 

It was the morning of All Saints’ Day. Francine was 
dead. 

Two men were watching by her pillow : one, who was 
standing, was the doctor ; the other, kneeling by the bed, 
with his lips glued to the dead woman’s hand as if 
they would imprint themselves there in a last desperate 
kiss, was Jacques, Francine’s lover. For more than six 
hours he was buried in sorrowful insensibility. A barrel 
organ passing under the window roused him from it. 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


3 l 9 

The organ was playing an air which Francine was 
accustomed to sing when she woke in the morning. 

One of those mad hopes born only of great despair 
passed through Jacques’s mind. He went back a month 
into the past, to the time when Francine was only dy- 
ing ; he forgot the present and imagined for a moment 
that the dead girl was only asleep, and that she would 
presently awake with her lips parted for her morning 
song. 

But the notes of the organ had not died away before 
Jacques had returned to reality. Francine’s mouth was 
closed forever to singing, and the smile that her last 
thought had brought to her lips faded away at the ap- 
proach of death. 

“ Courage, Jacques ! ” said the doctor, who was the 
sculptor’s friend. 

Jacques rose and said, looking the doctor in the face : 

“ It’s all over? there’s no hope? ” 

Without answering the pitifully vain questions, the 
doctor drew the curtains of the bed ; then he returned 
to the sculptor and held out his hand. 

“ Francine is dead,” he said, “ we could expect 
nothing else. God knows that we did all we could do to 
save her. She was a good girl, Jacques, and loved you 
dearly, more and better than you loved her ; for her love 
was made of love alone, whereas yours contained some 
alloy. Francine is dead — but that isn’t all; we must 
think now about taking the necessary steps for her burial. 


3 2 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


We will attend to it together, and we’ll ask your neighbor 
to keep watch here while we are away.” 

Jacques allowed his friend to lead him away. All day 
long they ran hither and thither ; to the mayor’s office, 
the undertaker’s, the cemetery. As Jacques had no 
money, the doctor pawned his watch, his ring and some 
wearing apparel to pay the expenses of the funeral, which 
was arranged for the following day. 

They returned together very late in the evening ; the 
neighbor forced Jacques to eat a little. 

“Yes,” he said, “I will; I am cold and I need a 
little strength, for I have some work to do to-night.” 

The doctor and the neighbor did not understand 
him. 

Jacques sat down at the table and ate a few mouth- 
fuls so hurriedly that they nearly choked him. Then 
he asked for drink. But as he put the glass to his mouth, 
he dropped it on the floor. The glass, which broke when 
it fell, had awakened in the artist’s mind a memory which, 
in its turn, awakened his grief, benumbed for a moment. 
On the day when Francine came first to his room, the 
young woman, who was ill even then, had had an ill turn, 
and Jacques had given her a little sugar and water to 
drink in that glass. Later, when they lived together, 
they had made it a sort of love-token. 

In his rare moments of opulence, the artist bought for 
his mistress one or two bottles of a strengthening wine 
which was prescribed for her, and it was from that glass 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


3 2 1 

that Francine drank the liquor from which her affection 
imbibed a winning gayety. 

For more than half an hour Jacques sat without speak- 
ing, looking at the scattered fragments of that fragile, 
cherished souvenir, and it seemed to him that his heart 
too was shattered and that he could feel the pieces tear- 
ing his breast. When he had come to himself, he picked 
up the ruins of the glass and threw them into a drawer. 
Then he asked the neighbor to go and get two wax 
candles and to send up a pail of water by the concierge. 

“ Don’t go,” he said to the doctor, who had no idea 
of going, “ I shall need you directly.” 

The water and candles were brought and the two 
friends were left alone. 

“What do you propose to do ? ” said the doctor, as 
Jacques, after pouring some of the water into a wooden 
bowl, threw in fine plaster in measured handfuls. 

“ Can’t you guess what I am going to do ? ” said the 
artist. “ I am going to take a cast of Francine’s head ; 
and as my courage would fail if I were left alone, you 
must not go.” 

Jacques then proceeded to draw aside the curtains of the 
bed and turned back the sheet that had been thrown 
over the dead girl’s face. His hands began to tremble 
and a stifled sob came to his lips. 

“ Bring the candles,” he cried to his friend, “ and come 
and hold the bowl for me.” 

One of the candles was placed at the head of the bed, 
21 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


3 22 

in such wise as to cast all its light on the dead girl’s face ; 
the other was placed at the foot. With the aid of a 
brush dipped in olive oil, the artist anointed the eye- 
brows, lashes and hair, which latter he arranged as Fran- 
cine usually wore it. 

“ In that way it won’t hurt her when we take off the 
mask,” Jacques muttered to himself. 

These precautions taken, and the dead girl’s head 
being placed in a favorable position, Jacques began to 
apply the plaster in successive layers until the mould was 
of the necessary thickness. In a quarter of an hour the 
operation was at an end and was perfectly successful. 

Strangely enough a change had taken place in Fran- 
cine’s face. The blood which had not had time to con- 
geal entirely, warmed anew doubtless by the heat of the 
plaster, had ascended toward the upper portion of the 
body, and a pink flush gradually impinged upon the 
dead white tones of the forehead and cheeks. The eye- 
lids, which had opened when the mould was removed, 
revealed the calm blue pupils, whose glance seemed to 
denote a vague intelligence; and from the lips, half 
opened by the beginning of a smile, there seemed to 
come, as if forgotten in the last farewell, that last word 
which is heard only by the heart. 

Who can assert that intelligence ends absolutely when 
insensibility begins? Who can say that the passions are 
extinguished and die with the last pulsation of the heart 
they have moved ? May not the mind sometimes vol- 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


323 


untarily remain a captive in the body already prepared 
for the grave, and, from the depths of its prison in the 
flesh, watch for a moment the regrets and tears of those 
left behind? Those who go have so many reasons for 
distrusting those who remain ! 

At the moment when it occurred to Jacques to pre- 
serve her features by means of his art, it may be — who 
knows? — that a thought of the hereafter had aroused 
Francine from the first sleep of her endless slumber. 
Perhaps she remembered that he whom she had left was 
an artist as well as a lover ; that he was both, because he 
could not be one without the other, that to him love was 
the soul of art, and that, if he had loved her so dearly, it 
was because she had succeeded in being to him both a 
woman and a mistress, a sentiment in human form. And 
thereupon, it may be, Francine, wishing to leave with 
Jacques the human image which had become to him an 
incarnate idea, had been able, although rigid in death, 
to clothe her face once more with all the joyous beams 
of love and all the charms of youth : she resuscitated the 
object of art. 

And it may be also that the poor girl thought truly ; 
for there are, among genuine artists, anomalous Pygma- 
lions, who, unlike the famous one, would like to be able 
to change their living Galateas to marble. 

Before the serenity of those features, on which there 
was no trace of the death agony, no one could have be- 
lieved in the long suffering which had served as a preface 


324 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


to death. Francine seemed to be still dreaming a dream 
of love, and, seeing her thus, you would have said that 
she had died of beauty. 

The doctor, thoroughly exhausted, was sleeping in a 
corner. 

As for Jacques, he was swimming anew in a sea of 
doubt. His distraught mind persisted in believing that 
she whom he had loved so dearly, would wake again ; 
and, as the immobility of the body was broken at inter- 
vals by slight nervous contractions due to the recent pro- 
cess of casting, that appearance of life confirmed Jacques 
in his pleasing delusion, which lasted until morning, when 
a commissioner came to establish the fact of the death 
and authorize the burial. 

However, if it needed all the madness of despair, as 
one looked at that lovely creature, to suspect that she 
was dead, it was none the less necessary to credit the 
infallibility of science. 

While the neighbor was preparing Francine’s body for 
burial, they led Jacques into another room, where he 
found some of his friends who had come to attend the 
funeral. Although they loved Jacques as a brother, the 
Bohemians abstained from the consolations which serve 
only to irritate sorrows. One after another they silently 
pressed their friend’s hand, without any of the words 
that are so hard to speak and so painful to hear. 

“ Her death is a great misfortune to Jacques,” said 
one of them. 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


325 


“Yes,” replied the painter Lazare, a curious character, 
who had succeeded early in life in quelling all the 
rebellious impulses of youth by meeting them with an 
inflexible, preconceived determination, and in whom the 
artist had finally stifled the man ; “ yes, but a misfortune 
which he wilfully introduced into his life. Jacques has 
changed greatly since he has known Francine.” 

“ She made him happy,” said another. 

“ Happy ! ” repeated Lazare, “what do you call hap- 
py? how can you call happiness a passion that puts a 
man in the state Jacques is in at this moment? Just go 
and show him a genuine masterpiece : he wouldn’t turn 
his eyes to look at it, and, to see his mistress once more, 
I am sure that he’d walk over a Titian or a Raphael. 
My mistress is immortal and never deceives me. She 
lives at the Louvre and her name is Joconde.” 

As Lazare was about to pursue his theories on art and 
sentiment, he was told that it was time to start for the 
church. 

After mass had been said, the procession started for 
the cemetery. — As it was All Souls’ Day, the abode of 
the dead was filled with an immense throng. Many 
people turned to look at Jacques, who walked bare- 
headed behind the hearse. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said one, “ it’s his mother, I suppose.” 

“ It’s his father,” said another. 

“ It’s his sister,” suggested some one else. 

A poet, who had come there to study the various 


326 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

manifestations of sorrow in that fete of memories, which 
is celebrated once a year amid the fogs of November, 
was the only one who guessed, as he saw Jacques pass, 
that he was following his mistress’s body. 

When they reached the allotted grave, the Bohemians 
bared their heads and stood around in a circle. Jacques 
stood on the edge of the grave, his friend the doctor 
holding his arm. 

The men at the cemetery were in a hurry and wished 
to do things quickly. 

“There’s to be no speech,” said one of them. “So 
much the better ! Now, boys ! all together ! ” 

The coffin was taken from the hearse, ropes were 
passed around it, and it was lowered into the grave. 
The man withdrew the ropes and climbed out of the 
hole ; then, assisted by one of his comrades, he took a 
shovel and began to throw in dirt. The grave was soon 
filled. A little wooden cross was placed at the head. 

The doctor heard Jacques, in the midst of his sobs, 
cry aloud in a burst of egoism : 

“O my youth ! they are burying you in that grave ! ” 

Jacques belonged to a society called the Water 
Drinkers , which seemed to have been founded with a 
view of copying the famous club on Rue des Quatre- 
Vents, described in that notable novel, The Pro- 
vincial Great Man in Paris. But there was a great 
difference between the heroes of the club and the Watet 
Drinkers , who, like all imitators, had exaggerated the 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


327 


system they sought to apply. This difference will be 
easily understood from the single fact that in Monsieur 
de Balzac’s book the members of the club end by attain- 
ing their object and prove that every system that suc- 
ceeds is a good one : whereas, after an existence of sev- 
eral years, the society of Water Drinkers was dissolved 
naturally, by the death of all its members, nor was the 
name of a single one of them attached to any work that 
might bear witness to his existence. 

During his liaison with Francine, Jacques’s relations 
with the Drinkers became less close. The necessities 
of existence had forced the artist to violate certain con- 
ditions, solemnly signed and sworn to by the Water 
Drinkers on the day the society was founded. 

Forever stalking on the stilts of ridiculous pride, those 
young men had made it a cardinal principle of their as- 
sociation that they were never to depart from the high- 
est pinnacles of art ; that is to say that, no matter how 
desperately in want they might be, no one of them would 
make any concession to necessity. For instance, the 
poet Melchior would never have consented to lay aside 
what he called his lyre in order to write a commercial 
prospectus or a profession of faith. It was all very well 
for the poet Rodolphe, a ne’er-do-well who was ready 
for anything, and who never let a hundred-sou piece pass 
before his eyes without firing at it, no matter with what. 
The painter Lazare, a proud tatterdemalion, would never 
have been willing to profane his brushes by painting the 


328 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


portrait of a tailor holding a parrot on his fingers, as our 
friend Marcel had done in exchange for the famous coat 
nicknamed Methuselah , which the hand of each of his mis- 
tresses had embellished with patches. During the whole 
time that he lived in close communion with the Water 
Drinkers , Jacques the sculptor submitted to the tyranny 
of the agreement of association ; but as soon as he made 
Francine’s acquaintance he refused to subject the poor 
child, who was already ill, to the diet he had accepted 
while he lived alone. Jacques was by nature upright and 
frank. He went to the president of the society, the ex- 
clusive Lazare, and informed him that he should thence- 
forth accept any work that would be profitable to him. 

“ My dear fellow,” Lazare replied, “ your declaration 
of love was your resignation as an artist. We will re- 
main your friends, if you choose, but we shall no longer 
be your associates. Ply your trade to please yourself ; 
to my mind, you are no longer a sculptor, but a plasterer. 
To be sure you will be at liberty to drink wine, but we, 
who continue to drink our water and eat our hard tack, 
shall remain artists.” 

Whatever Lazare might choose to say, Jacques re- 
mained an artist. But to keep Francine by his side he 
gave his time to profitable tasks whenever occasion of- 
fered. For instance, he worked a long time in the 
establishment of Romagn£si the ornament maker. In- 
genious in designing, skilful in execution, Jacques might 
easily, without turning his back upon serious art, have 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


3 2 9 


acquired a great reputation in genre compositions, which 
have become one of the principal elements in the fancy- 
goods business. But Jacques was lazy like all true ar- 
tists, and in love after the fashion of poets. In him 
youthful impulses awoke late but ardent ; and having a 
presentiment of his early end, he determined to live his 
whole life in Francine’s arms. So it often happened that 
favorable opportunities for work knocked at his door 
without eliciting any reply, because he would have been 
obliged to put himself out a little, and he was altogether 
too comfortable, dreaming in the light from his mis- 
tress’s eyes. 

When Francine was dead, the sculptor called upon his 
former friends the Water Dri7ikers. But Lazare’s was 
the dominating mind in that circle, each of whose mem- 
bers was petrified, so to speak, in the egotism of art. 
Jacques did not find there what he sought. They hardly 
understood his despair, which they sought to soothe 
by argument ; and, seeing how little they were in sym- 
pathy with him, he preferred to isolate his grief rather 
than expose it to discussion. He therefore severed his 
connection with the Water Drmkers altogether, and 
went to live alone. 

Five or six days after Francine’s funeral, Jacques called 
upon a marble worker at the Montparnasse cemetery and 
offered to make the following bargain with him : the 
marble worker was to furnish a railing for Francine’s 
grave, to be designed by Jacques, and to give the artist 


33 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


a piece of white marble, in consideration whereof Jacques 
was to place his services at the marble-worker’s disposal 
for three months, either as stone-cutter or as sculptor. 
The dealer in gravestones had at that time several large 
orders on hand, he went to the artist’s studio and ac- 
quired sufficient proof, from several unfinished works 
which he saw there, that the chance which had sent Jac- 
ques to him was a most fortunate one. A week later 
Francine’s grave was surrounded by an iron fence, in the 
centre of which was a stone cross, with her name carved 
thereon in sunken letters, replacing the wooden cross. 

Luckily Jacques had to do with an honest man, who 
realized that a hundred kilogrammes of cast iron and 
three square feet of Pyrenees marble were inadequate 
compensation for three months’ work by Jacques, whose 
talent was worth several thousand crowns to him. He 
offered to give the artist an interest in his business, but 
Jacques declined. The lack of variety in the subjects to 
be treated was repugnant to his inventive genius ; more- 
over, he had what he wanted, a great block of marble, 
from whose bowels he proposed to bring forth a chef- 
d'oeuvre, which he intended for Francine’s tomb. 

In the early spring Jacques’s condition improved : his 
friend, the doctor, procured his introduction to a great 
foreign nobleman, who had taken up his abode in Paris 
and was building a magnificent mansion in one of the 
finest quarters of the city. Several famous artists had 
been called upon to contribute to the splendors of that 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


331 

little palace. Jacques received an order for the mantel 
in the salon. It seems to me that I can see Jacques’s 
sketches now ; they were fascinating things : a whole 
winter poem was written in the marble that was to serve 
as a framework for the flames. As Jacques’s studio was 
too small, he applied for and obtained the use of a room 
in the still unoccupied house. They also advanced a 
considerable sum on the price agreed upon for the work. 
Jacques began to repay his friend the doctor the money 
he had lent him when Francine died ; then he hastened 
to the cemetery to give orders that the spot where his 
mistress lay should be concealed beneath a field of 
flowers. 

But the spring had anticipated Jacques, and thousands 
of flowers were growing at random among the green 
grass on the young girl’s grave. The artist had not the 
courage to tear them up, for he thought that the flowers 
might contain something of his mistress. When the 
gardener asked him what he should do with the roses 
and pansies he had brought, Jacques bade him plant 
them on a neighboring new-made grave, the poor grave 
of a poor man, unenclosed, and with nothing to identify 
it save a piece of wood stuck into the ground and sur- 
mounted by a wreath of soiled paper flowers, the poor 
offering of a poor man’s grief. Jacques left the cemetery 
a very different man. He gazed with joyful interest at 
the lovely spring sun, the same that had so often shed a 
golden gleam upon Francine’s hair as she ran through 


33 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


the fields, plucking the flowers with her white hands. A 
whole swarm of kindly thoughts sang in his heart. As 
he passed a little wine-shop on the outer boulevard, he 
remembered that he and Franc ine had gone in there one 
day, when they were overtaken by a storm, and had dined 
there. He entered and ate his dinner at the same table. 
They served his dessert in a painted saucer ; he recog- 
nized the saucer and remembered that Francine had sat 
for half an hour trying to guess the rebus that was painted 
on it ; and he also remembered a song Francine had 
sung, being in high spirits because of a certain little wine 
made of violets, which is not expensive and contains 
more gayety than the grape. But that flood of pleas- 
ant memories awoke his love without awaking his grief. 
Prone to superstition, like all dreamy, poetic minds, 
Jacques imagined that it was Francine who, hearing his 
step just now close beside her, had sent him that whiff of 
happy memories from her grave, and he did not wish to 
moisten them with a tear. So he went from the wine- 
shop, stepping lightly, with erect head, bright-eyed, heart 
beating high, with a smile playing about his lips, and 
murmuring, as he went, the refrain of Francine’s song : 

Love is prowling in my quarter, 

I must keep my door ajar. 

That refrain in Jacques’s mouth was another souvenir, 
but it was a song as well ; and that evening, Jacques, 
without suspecting it, took the first step in the road that 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


333 


leads from gloom to melancholy, and thence to oblivion. 
Alas ! whatever we may wish, whatever we may do, the 
just and everlasting law of change will have it so. 

Like the flowers which, born perhaps of Francine’s 
body, had blossomed on her grave, the sap of youth 
bloomed in Jacques’s heart, where the memory of the old 
love awoke vague aspirations for new loves. Moreover, 
Jacques was of the race of artists and poets who make 
of passion an instrument of art and poetry, and whose 
mind does not act except as it is set in motion by the 
motive power of the heart. In Jacques, invention was 
truly the child of feeling, and he put a piece of himself 
into the most trivial things he did. He perceived that 
souvenirs were no longer enough for him, and that, like 
the mill-stone that wears itself out when it has no grain 
to grind, his heart was wearing out for lack of emotion. 
Work no longer had any charm for him ; invention, once 
feverish and spontaneous, was no longer possible except 
by patient effort ; Jacques was discontented and almost 
envied the life of his former friends the Water Drinkers. 

He tried to divert his mind, held out his hand to dis- 
sipation and formed new connections. He saw much of 
the poet Rodolphe, whom he met at a cafe, and each of 
them conceived a most sympathetic liking for the other. 
Jacques described his troubles to Rodolphe and Rodolphe 
was not long in discerning their cause. 

“ My friend,” he said, “ I know all about it ; ” and he 
added, tapping him on the breast over the heart : “ we 


334 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


must light up the fire there again, and quickly too ; 
sketch a little passion without delay, and your ideas will 
come back to you.” 

“ Ah ! I loyed Francine too well,” said Jacques. 

“ This won’t prevent your loying her still. You can 
kiss her on another’s lips.” 

“ If I could only fall in with a woman who looks like 
her ! ” said Jacques. And he left Rodolphe, lost in 
thought. 

Six weeks later Jacques had recovered all his energy, 
kindled anew in the soft glances of a pretty girl named 
Marie, whose somewhat unhealthy beauty reminded him 
a little of poor Francine’s. In truth, one can imagine 
nothing prettier than that pretty Marie, who was six 
weeks less than eighteen, as she never lost an opportunity 
to tell. Her love-affair with Jacques was born in the 
moonlight, in the garden at an outdoor ball, to the 
music of a squeaking violin, a consumptive bass viol and 
a clarinet that whistled like a blackbird, Jacques met 
her there one evening as he was walking gravely around 
the semi-circle reserved for dancing. As she saw him 
walk stiffly by, in his everlasting black coat buttoned to 
the neck, the pretty, loud-voiced damsels who frequented 
the place, and who knew the artist by sight, said to one 
another : 

“ What is that mute doing here ? Is there someone 
to be buried? ” 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


335 


But Jacques stalked on alone, making his heart bleed 
inwardly with the thorns of a reminiscence, whose pain- 
fulness the orchestra augmented by playing a merry 
contradance which sounded as doleful tcj the artist’s 
ears as a De Profundis. In the midst of his reverie he 
noticed Marie in a corner, looking at him and laughing 
uproariously at his glum expression. Jacques raised his 
eyes and heard that burst of laughter in a pink hat 
within three steps of him. He walked up to the girl 
and said a few words to her, to which she replied • he 
offered her his arm to walk around the garden, and she 
accepted it. He told her that he considered her as 
lovely as an angel and she made him repeat it twice ; he 
stole green apples for her from a tree in the garden, and 
she munched them greedily, laughing the ringing laugh 
that seemed to be the refrain of her never-failing gayety. 
Jacques thought of the Bible, and reflected that one 
should never despair with any woman, especially with 
one who likes apples. He made another circuit of the 
garden with the pink hat, and so it was that, although he 
came to the ball alone, he did riot go home in the same 
plight. 

Jacques had not forgotten Fraricirie, however ; as Ro- 
dolphe said, he kissed her every day on Marie’s lips, and 
worked secretly on the figure he proposed to place on 
the dead girl’s grave. 

One day, when he had received some money, Jacques 
bought a dress for Marie, a black dress. The child was 


3 3 6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


well pleased ; but she did not consider black very cheer- 
ful for the summer. But Jacques told her that he was 
very fond of black, and that she would please him greatly 
by wearing that dress every day. Marie obeyed. 

One Saturday Jacques said to her : 

“Come early to-morrow and we will go into the 
country.” 

“What fun!” said Marie. “Iam preparing a sur- 
prise for you, you’ll see; it will be pleasant to-morrow.” 

Marie passed the night at home finishing a new dress 
she had bought with her savings, a pretty pink dress. 
And on Sunday she appeared at Jacques’s studio, arrayed 
in her fetching costume. 

The artist received her coldly, almost brutally. 

“ Why, I thought I should please you by making my- 
self a present of this bright-colored gown ! ” said Marie, 
unable to understand Jacques’s cold manner. 

“We won’t go to the country,” he rejoined; “you 
can go, but I have to work.” 

Marie returned home with a heavy -heart. On the 
way she met a young man who knew Jacques’s story and 
who had once paid court to her. 

“ Ah ! Mademoiselle Marie, so you’ve gone out of 
mourning?” he said. 

“Mourning,” said Marie; “for whom ?” 

“Why, don’t you know? It’s a well known fact, 
however; that black dress Jacques gave you — ” 

“Well ?” 


FRANCINE’S MUFF 


337 

“Was a mourning dress; Jacques made you wear 
mourning for Francine.” 

From that day Jacques saw Marie no more. 

The rupture brought him bad luck. The evil days 
returned ; he had no work and fell into such horrible 
destitution that, not knowing which way to turn, he 
begged his friend the doctor to procure his admission to 
a hospital. The doctor saw at a glance that it would 
not be a difficult task. Jacques, who had no suspicion 
of his condition, was on his way to join Francine. 

He was admitted to the Saint-Louis hospital. 

As he could still walk and use his hands, Jacques 
begged the manager of the hospital to let him have a 
small room which was not in use and he procured a stool 
and modelling tools and some clay. During the first 
fortnight he worked at the figure intended for Francine’s 
tomb. It was a large angel with wings outspread. That 
figure, whose face was a portrait of Francine, was not 
entirely finished, for Jacques could no longer go upstairs, 
and he was soon unable to leave his bed. 

One day the book kept by the house doctor fell into his 
hands, and when he saw what remedies were prescribed 
for him, Jacques realized that he was lost : he wrote to 
his family and sent for Sister Sainte-Genevieve, whose 
kindly attentions to him knew no bounds. 

“Sister,” said Jacques, “in the room you procured 
for me upstairs there is a small plaster figure, represent- 
ing an angel, which was intended for a tomb, but I 
22 


338 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

haven’t time to execute it in marble. But I have a 
beautiful piece of marble at home, white marble veined 
with pink. However — sister, I give you my little 
statuette to put in the chapel of the sisterhood.” 

Jacques died a few days later. As the funeral took 
place on the day of the opening of the Salon, the Water 
Drinkers did not attend. “ Art before everything,” said 
Lazare. 

Jacques’s family was not rich and the artist had no 
specially marked grave. 

He was buried somewhere. 


XIX 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 

It will be remembered perhaps that the painter Marcel 
had sold the Jew M£dicis his famous picture of the Pas- 
sage of the Red Sea, which was destined to serve as a 
sign for the shop of a dealer in provisions. On the day 
following that sale, which had been succeeded by a 
sumptuous dinner proffered the Bohemians by the Jew as 
an adjunct to the bargain, Marcel, Schaunard, Rodolphe 
and Colline woke very late in the morning. Still dazed 
by the fumes of the drunkenness of the preceding night, 
they could not at first remember what had taken place ; 
and as the noonday Angelas was ringing on a church 
near by, they glanced at one another with a melancholy 
| smile. 

“ The pious-toned bell summons mankind to the re- 
fectory,” said Marcel. 

“It is in truth,” said Rodolphe, “the solemn hour at 
which honest people pass to the dining hall.” 

“ We must try to find a way to become honest peo- 
ple,” murmured Colline, to whom every day was the 
feast of Saint Appetite. 


(339) 


340 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ O ye milk-boxes of my nurse ! O ye four daily 
meals of my infancy, what has become of you ? ” added 
Schaunard ; “ what has become of you ? ” he repeated 
in a tone overflowing with gentle and dreamy melancholy. 

“ To think that there are more than a hundred thou- 
sand cutlets on the gridiron in Paris at this moment ! ” 
said Marcel. 

“ And as many beefsteaks ! ” added Rodolphe. 

While the four friends were thus facing the terrible 
daily problem of breakfast, the waiters in a restaurant in 
the building, as if in ironical contrast, were shouting the 
orders of the customers at the tops of their voices. 

“Will those brigands never be quiet ?” said Marcel; 
“ every word produces the effect on me of a blow with a 
pickaxe in my stomach.” 

“The wind is north,” said Colline gravely, pointing to 
a vane revolving on a roof near by; “we shall not 
breakfast to-day, the elements say no.” 

“ How so ? ” Marcel inquired. 

“ It’s an atmospherical peculiarity I have noticed,” 
said the philosopher : “ the wind in the north almost 
always signifies abstinence, just as the south wind usually 
signifies pleasure and good cheer. That is what philoso- 
phy calls warnings from on high.” 

When fasting, Gustave Colline was a ferocious jester. 

At that moment, Schaunard who had plunged one of 
his arms into the abyss that served him as a pocket, 
withdrew it with a cry of agony. 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


341 


“ Help ! there’s some one in my coat ! ” roared 
Schaunard, struggling to release his hand, which was 
caught between the claws of a live lobster. 

His cry was answered by another. It came from 
Marcel who, as he mechanically moved his hand about 
in his pocket, discovered there an America which he 
had entirely forgotten, to-wit, the hundred and fifty 
francs the Jew M^dicis had given him the night before 
in payment for the Passage of the Red Sea. 

Thereupon memory returned to all of the Bohemi- 
ans. 

“ Salute them, messieurs ! ” said Marcel, spreading 
out upon the table a handful of coins, among w T hich 
gleamed five or six new louis. 

“ One would think they were alive,” said Colline. 

“ What a sweet voice ! ” said Schaunard, making the 
gold pieces sing. 

“ How pretty these medallions are ! ” added Ro- 
dolphe ; “ one would say they were pieces of sunlight. 
If I were king, I wouldn’t have any other coins and I’d 
have them struck with my mistress’s image.” 

“ To think that there is a country where these are like 
pebbles,” said Schaunard. “The Americans used to 
sell four of them for two sous. There was one of my 
former relatives who visited America : he was buried in 
the stomachs of the Savages. That injured the family 
very much.” 

“ Look at that ! ” cried Marcel, pointing to the lobster, 


342 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


which was walking about the room ; “ where did that 
creature come from? ” 

“ I remember,” said Schaunard, “ that I took a walk 
around M^dicis’ kitchen yesterday ; I am bound to be- 
lieve that that reptile fell into my pocket without mean- 
ing to, for they’re short-sighted beasts. As long as I 
have it,” he added, “ I am inclined to keep it, I’ll tame 
it and paint it red, that will make it more cheerful. I 
am very melancholy since Ph£mie’s departure, and it 
will be company for me.” 

“ Messieurs,” cried Colline, “ I beg you to notice that 
the vane has turned to the south; we shall breakfast.” 

“ I believe you,” said Marcel, taking up a gold piece, 
“we’ll have this fellow cooked with a lot of sauce.” 

They proceeded to discuss the menu at great length 
and with great gravity. Each dish was debated and put 
to a vote. The omelette soiifflee suggested by Schaunard 
was rejected with regret, and the same is true of white 
wines, against which Marcel raised his voice in an im- 
provised speech which displayed his knowledge of wines 
to advantage. 

“ It is the first duty of wine to be red,” cried the 
artist ; “don’t talk to me of your white wines ! ” 

“But there’s champagne,” said Schaunard. 

“ Bah ! Fashionable cider ! epileptic cocoa ! I would 
give all the cellars of Epernay and Ai for a cask of Bur- 
gundy. Besides we haven’t any grisettes to seduce or 
antics to perform. I vote against champagne.” 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


343 


The programme once adopted, Schaunard and Colline 
went down to the neighboring restaurant to order the 
repast. 

“ Suppose we make a fire,” said Marcel. 

“ Faith, it wouldn’t be a bad idea,” said Rodolphe : 
“ the thermometer has been suggesting it for a long 
while ; let’s have a fire. The chimney will be mightily 
surprised.” 

He ran out to the landing and begged Colline to send 
up some wood. 

A few moments later Schaunard and Colline reap- 
peared, followed by a porter carrying a large bundle of 
firewood. 

As Marcel was fumbling in a drawer, trying to find 
some papers of no value with which to light the fire, he 
chanced to fall upon a letter in a handwriting that made 
him start, and he turned his back on his friends and 
began to read it. 

It was a note in pencil, written by Musette at the 
time she lived with Marcel ; it was dated just a year be- 
fore, day for day. It contained only Ihese few words : 

“ My Dear Friend, 

“ Don’t be uneasy about me, I shall be at home soon. 
I have gone out to walk a little way to get warm ; it is 
freezing cold in the room and the coalman has gone to 
sleep. I broke up the last two pieces of the chair, but 
they didn’t burn long enough to cook an egg. Besides, 


344 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


the wind comes in through the window just as if it was 
at home, and whispers a lot of bad advice in my ear that 
would make you unhappy if I listened to it. I prefer to 
go out for a while, I’ll go and look in the shop-windows. 
They say that they’re selling velvet at ten francs a yard. 
I can’t believe it, I must go and see. I will be at home 
for dinner. 

“ Musette.” 


“Poor girl!” muttered Marcel, putting the letter in 
his pocket. And he stood for a moment lost in thought, 
with his face buried in his hands. 

At that time the Bohemians had long been widowers, 
all except Colline, whose sweetheart still remained in- 
visible and anonymous. 

Even Ph£mie, Schaunard’s good-natured companion, 
had fallen in with an innocent creature who had offered 
her his heart, a set of mahogany furniture and a ring 
made of his hair — red hair. But, a fortnight after he 
gave them to her, Ph^mie’s lover wished to take back 
both his heart and his furniture because he had noticed, 
as he looked at his mistress’s hands, that she wore 
a hair ring, but that the hair was black ; and he ventured 
to suspect her of treachery. 

And yet Phemie had not ceased to be virtuous ; but, 
as several of her friends had joked her because of the 
red hair in her ring, she had had it dyed black. The 
gentleman was so well satisfied that he bought Phemie a 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


345 

silk dress, her first one. On the day that she wore it for 
the first time, the poor child cried : 

“ Now I am ready to die.” 

As for Musette, she had become almost an official 
character once more, and for three or four months Mar- 
cel had not met her. And as for Mimi, Rodolphe had 
never heard her name mentioned, except by himself 
when he was alone. 

“ Well, well ! ” Rodolphe suddenly exclaimed, seeing 
Marcel crouching pensively in the chimney corner, “ how 
about that fire ? won’t it light ? ” 

“ There it goes, there it goes,” said the painter, light- 
ing the wood, which began to crackle and burn. 

While his friends were sharpening their appetites by 
busying themselves over the preparations for the feast, 
Marcel sat by himself in a comer, and placed on a table 
the letter he had found by accident, side by side with 
some few souvenirs Musette had left him. Suddenly he 
remembered the address of a woman who was his former 
mistress’s intimate friend. 

“ Ah ! ” he exclaimed, loud enough to be overheard, 
“ I know where to find her.” 

“ To find whom ? ” said Rodolphe. “What are you 
doing there ? ” he added, as he saw the artist preparing 
to write. 

“ Nothing, a very important letter I had forgotten. I 
am with you in a moment,” Marcel replied, and he 


wrote : 


346 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ My dear Child, 

“ I have millions in my desk ; I have had an apoplec- 
tic stroke of overwhelming good fortune. There’s to be 
a great breakfast in the house — it is cooking now — with 
plenty of wine; and we have made a fire, my dear, 
just like good bourgeois. You should see it, as you 
used to say. Come and pass a few moments with us ; 
you’ll find Rodolphe, Colline and Schaunard here, and 
you shall sing us some songs at dessert : there is dessert ! 
While we are about it, we shall probably stay at table 
about a week. So don’t be afraid of coming too late. 
It’s so long since I heard you laugh ! Rodolphe will 
pay you compliments and we’ll drink all sorts of things 
to our dead and gone love, with no other risk than that 
of reviving it. Between people like us — the last kiss is 
never the last. Ah ! if it hadn’t been so cold last year, 
perhaps you would not have left me. You betrayed me 
for a stick of wood, and because you were afraid of hav- 
ing red hands : you did well, and I bear you no more 
ill-will for doing it that time than for the others; but 
come and warm yourself while there’s a fire. 

“ I kiss you as many times as you wish. 

“ Marcel.” 

When that letter was finished, Marcel wrote another 
to Madame Sidonie, Musette’s friend, and begged her to 
forward the letter which he enclosed for Musette. Then 
he went down to the concierge to give him the letters to 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


347 


deliver. As he paid him his fee in advance, the con- 
cierge saw a gold piece gleaming in the painter’s hands, 
and before starting upon his errand, he went up and 
notified the landlord, to whom Marcel owed some arrears 
of rent. 

" Mossieu,” he said breathlessly, “the artist on the 
sixth has got some money ! You know, that tall fellow 
who laughs in mylface when I carry him the receipt.” 

“ Yes,” said the landlord, “ the one who had the im- 
pudence to borrow money from me to pay me something 
on account. He has notice to quit.” 

“ Yes, monsieur. But he’s lined with gold to-day ; it 
burned my eyes just now. He’s giving parties. It’s the 
right time to — ” 

“ Very good,” said the landlord, “ I’ll go myself and 
see him directly.” 

Madame Sidonie, who was at home when Marcel’s . 
letter was brought to her, sent her maid at once to de- 
liver the enclosed note to Mademoiselle Musette. 

That young woman was then living in a lovely apart- 
ment in the Chauss^e d’Antin. At the moment when 
'Marcel’s letter was handed to her, she had visitors, and 
was to give a grand, ceremonious dinner that same 
evening. 

“Here’s a miracle!” cried Musette, laughing like a 
madwoman. 

“What’s the matter?” queried a handsome youth, as 
stiff as a statue. 


348 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ This is an invitation to dinner,” she replied. “ Well, 
well ! how nicely it happens ! ” 

“It happens very badly,” said the young man. 

“Why so?” said Musette. 

“ What ! — do you think of going to this dinner? ” 

“ I should say that I do think of it. Make such ar- 
rangements as you choose.” 

“ But my dear, it isn’t at all proper. — You can go an- 
other time.” 

“ That’s very fine, on my word ! another time ! It’s 
an old friend of mine, Marcel, who invites me to dinner 
and it’s such an extraordinary thing that I must go and 
see what it means ! Another time ! why, real dinners in 
that house are as rare as eclipses ! ” 

“ What ! you will break your word to us to go and see 
that person” said the young man, “ and you dare say it 
to me ! ” 

“ To whom should I say it, pray? To the Grand Turk? 
It’s none of his business.” 

“ But this is most unusual assurance.” 

“ You know very well that I do nothing as other peo- 
ple do,” said Musette. 

“ But what will you think of me if I let you go, know- 
ing where you are going? Just consider, -Musette, how 
improper it is, both on my account and your own : we 
must send this young man your excuses.” 

“My dear Monsieur Maurice,” said Musette in a very 
firm voice, “ you knew me before you took me ; you 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


349 

knew that I was full of whims, and that no living soul 
could boast of having ever made me abandon one.” 

“ Ask me anything you choose,” said Maurice, “ but 
when it comes to this ! There are whims — and whims — ” 

“ Maurice, I shall go to Marcel’s : I am going now,” 
she added, putting on her hat. “You can leave me if 
you choose, but I cannot help it, he’s the best fellow in 
the world and the only one I ever loved. If his heart 
had been made of gold, he would have had it melted 
down to make rings for me. Poor boy,” she said, 
holding up the letter, “ see, as soon as they have a little 
fire he invites me to come and warm myself. Ah ! if 
he wasn’t so lazy and if there weren’t any silks and 
velvets in the shops ! ! ! I was very happy with him ; he 
had the art of making my heart ache, and it was he who 
gave me the name of Musette, on account of my singing. 
You can at least be sure, when I go to him, that I shall 
return to you — unless you shut the door in my face.” 

“You could not confess more frankly that you don’t 
love me,” said the young man. 

“ Nonsense, my dear Maurice, you’re too sensible a 
man to force a serious discussion on that topic. You 
have me just as a man has a fine horse in his stable ; I 
love you — because I love luxury, the excitement of par- 
ties, everything that glitters and makes a noise ; let us 
not be sentimental, it would be useless and absurd.” 

“At all events, let me go with you.” 

“But you wouldn’t enjoy yourself in the least, and 


35 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


you would interfere with our amusement. Just consider 
that the boy will necessarily kiss me.” 

“ Musette,” said Maurice, “ have you often found men 
as accommodating as I am ? ” 

“ Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Musette, “one day when 

I was driving in the Champs-Elys£es with Lord I 

met Marcel and his friend Rodolphe, on foot, both very 
shabbily dressed, bedraggled as shepherds’ dogs, and 
smoking their pipes. It was three months since I had 
seen Marcel, and it seemed to me as if my heart would 
jump out of the carriage door. I told the coachman to 
stop, and for half an hour I talked with Marcel there in 
the face of all Paris in its finest turnouts. Marcel of- 
fered me some Nanterre buns and a bunch of violets 
that cost a sou, which I put in my belt. When he left 

me, Lord wanted to call him back and invite him 

to dine with us, and I kissed him for the thought. And 
that is my nature, my dear Monsieur Maurice; if it 
doesn’t suit you, say so at once, and I’ll go and get my 
slippers and my nightcap.” 

“ It’s a good thing sometimes to be poor, it seems ! ” 
said Vicomte Maurice in a tone of envious sadness. 

“ Why, no ! ” said Musette : “ if Marcel had been 
rich, I should never have left him.” 

“ Go, if you will,” said the young man, pressing her 
hand. “You have on your new dress,” he added, “it’s 
wonderfully becoming.” 

“It is, really,” said Musette; “ I had a sort of pre- 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


3Si 

sentiment this morning. Marcel will see it when it’s 
new. Adieu ! I am going to eat a little of the con- 
secrated bread of gayety.” 

Musette wore a fascinating costume that day; never 
had a more seductive binding enveloped the poem of 
her youth and beauty. Musette had an inborn genius for 
dressing well. When she came into the world, the first 
thing she sought with her eyes must have been a mirror, 
so that she might arrange her swaddling-clothes becoming- 
ly ; and she had committed the sin of coquetry even be- 
fore she went to the baptismal font. In the days when her 
condition was as lowly as could be, when she was reduced 
to cotton print dresses, little caps with showy ornaments 
and goat-skin shoes, she was bewitching in that cheap 
and simple grisette’s costume. The pretty girls, half 
bee, half grasshopper, who worked cheerfully all the 
week and asked God for nothing but a little sunshine on 
Sunday, made love in vulgar fashion, with the heart, and 
sometimes threw themselves out of the window. That 
race has vanished now, thanks to the present generation 
of young men — a corrupt and corrupting generation, but 
above all things, vain, stupid and brutal. For the pleas- 
ure of making ill-natured paradoxes, they laughed at 
the poor girls because of their hands, mutilated by the 
sacred scars of toil, and before long they ceased to earn 
enough to buy almond paste. Little by little the men 
succeeded in inoculating them with their vanity and 
stupidity, and then it was that the grisette disappeared. 


35 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Then it was that the lorette was born. A hybrid race, 
impertinent creatures, passably pretty, half-flesh, half- 
cosmetics, whose boudoirs are shops where they retail 
pieces of their hearts, like so many slices of roast 
beef. The greater number of these girls, who are a dis- 
grace to pleasure and the shame of modern love-making, 
have not as much intelligence as the birds whose feathers 
they wear in their hats. If by chance they happen to 
have, not a real passion, not even a caprice, but a vulgar 
flame, it is for some clownish bourgeois, whom the un- 
reasoning multitude surrounds and applauds at public 
balls, and whom the newspapers, flatterers of whatever 
is ridiculous, glorify in their columns. Although she 
was compelled J;o live among those people,- Musette had 
neither their manners nor their morals ; she had none 
of the greedy servility characteristic of the creatures who 
can read nothing but Bareme and write only in figures. 
She was a bright, intelligent girl, with some drops of the 
blood of Mansu in her veins : and, instinctively rebel- 
lious under any attempt to drive her, she had never been 
able or inclined to resist a caprice, whatever its conse- 
quences were likely to be. 

Marcel was really the only man she had ever loved. 
At all events, he was the only one for whom she had 
really suffered, and nothing less than the obstinate instinct 
that impelled her toward “ everything that glitters and 
makes a noise” would have induced her to leave him. 
She was twenty years old, and, to her, luxurious living 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


353 


was almost a question of health. She might do without 
it for some time but she could not renounce it altogether. 
Knowing her own fickleness, she had never been willing 
to consent to padlock her heart with an oath of fidelity. 
She had been fervently loved by many young men for 
whom she had herself had a very warm liking ; and her 
behavior toward them was always marked by judicious 
straightforwardness; the engagements she entered into 
were as simple and frank and naive as the declarations 
of love of Moliere’s peasants. “You want me and I 
want you ; shake hands, and let’s be married.” Ten 
times over if she had chosen, Musette could have ar- 
ranged for herself a permanent position, what is called a 
future ; but she hardly believed in the future, and was as 
sceptical as Figaro concerning it. 

“To-morrow,” she would say sometimes, “is a joke 
of the calendar ; it’s a daily pretext men have discovered 
for not attending to business to-day. To-morrow, there 
may be an earthquake. No matter, the earth is solid 
to-day.” 

One day, a man of pleasure, with whom she had lived 
nearly six months, and who had fallen madly in love with 
her, proposed marriage to her in all seriousness. Mu- 
sette burst out laughing in his face at the suggestion. 

“I, imprison my liberty in a marriage contract? 
Never ! ” she said. 

“ But I pass my life trembling with the fear of losing 
you.”' 

23 


354 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ You would be much more likely to lose me if I was 
your wife,” Musette replied. “ Let’s say no more about 
it. Besides, I’m not free,” she added, probably think- 
ing of Marcel. 

Thus, she passed her youth, her mind fluttering at the 
will of all the winds of the unforeseen, making many others 
happy, and almost happy herself. Yicomte Maurice, 
with whom she was living at that moment, had much 
difficulty in accommodating himself to the whims of the 
untamable creature, drunk with liberty ; and his impa- 
tience was heavily charged with jealousy as he awaited 
Musette’s return, after she had started for Marcel’s. 

“Will she remain there? ” the young man asked him- 
self all the evening, burying the interrogation point, like 
a dagger, in his heart. 

“ Poor Maurice ! ” said Musette to herself, “ he thinks 
this is a little too bad. Pshaw ! young men must be 
trained.” Then her mind turning suddenly to other 
things, she thought of Marcel, to whose house she was 
going ; and as she passed in review the memories awak- 
ened by the name of her former adorer, she wondered 
by what miracle he happened to have a table spread in 
his room. As she walked along, she re-read the letter the 
artist had written her, and she could not restrain a feel- 
ing of sadness. But it lasted only a moment. She re- 
flected, and with reason, that there was less occasion 
than ever to be sad, and as a high wind arose just then, 
she cried : 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


355 

“ It’s very funny ; even if I didn’t want to go to Mar- 
cel’s, the wind would blow me there.” 

And she walked on, quickening her step, as light- 
hearted as a bird flying back to its first nest. 

Suddenly the snow began to fall heavily. Musette 
looked about in search of a carriage. She saw none. 
As she was in the street on which her friend Madame 
Sidonie lived, — the same who had sent her Marcel’s letter 
— it occurred to her to call at her house and wait until 
the weather would permit her to go on. 

When Musette entered Madame Sidonie’s apartments, 
she found quite a large party there. A game of lans- 
quenet was in progress, which they had begun three days 
before. 

“ Don’t disturb yourselves,” said Musette, “ I am go- 
ing right away again.” 

“Did you receive Marcel’s letter?” whispered Ma- 
dame Sidonie. 

“Yes,” replied Musette, “thanks; I am on my way 
to him ; he has invited me to dinner. Don’t you want 
to go? you would enjoy yourself immensely.” 

“Why, no, I can’t,” said Sidonie, pointing to the 
card table, “ think of my quarter’s rent.” 

« There are six louis,” said the banker, who held the 
cards. 

« I take two of them,” cried Madame Sidonie. 

“I am not proud, done for two,” replied the banker, 
who had already won several times. “ King and ace. 


35 6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


I am done for,” he continued, dropping the cards, “ all 
the kings are dead.” 

“You mustn’t talk politics,” said a journalist. 

“ And the ace is the enemy of my family,” concluded 
the banker, turning another king. “Vive le roi ! ” he 
cried. “ Send me two louis, Sidonie, my love.” 

“ Put them in your account,” said Sidonie, in a rage 
at having lost.. 

“ That makes five hundred francs you owe me, little 
one,” said the banker. “ It will soon be a thousand. I 
pass.” 

Sidonie and Musette talked together in undertones. 
The game went on. 

At about the same time, the Bohemians were taking 
their places at the table. Throughout the repast Marcel 
seemed distraught. Whenever there was a footstep on 
the stairs they saw him start. 

“ What’s the matter with you? ” RodoJphe asked him ; 
“ one would think you were expecting somebody. Aren’t 
we all here?”’ 

But at a meaning glance that the artist bestowed upon 
him, the poet understood the cause of his friend’s pre- 
occupation. 

“True,”* he said to himself, “we are not all here.” 

Marcel’s glance meant Musette ; Rodolphe’s glance 
meant Mimi. 

“We need some women here,” Schaunard suddenly 
remarked. 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


357 


“ Sac reb leu! *' shouted Colline, “will you never have 
done with your libertine suggestions? We agreed not to 
mention love ; it curdles the sauces.” 

The friends began to drink more freely than before, 
while out of doors the snow was still falling and on the 
hearth the wood burned brightly, sending forth showers 
of sparks like fireworks. 

As Rodolphe was humming aloud the refrain of a 
ballad he had found at the bottom of his glass, they 
heard several knocks at the door. 

At that sound Marcel, who was beginning to feel the 
numbness of intoxication, sprang from his chair, as a 
diver, striking the bottom with his feet, rises to the sur- 
face, and ran to open the door. 

It was not Musette. 

A man appeared on the threshold. He held a paper 
in his hand. His exterior was not unpleasant, but his 
dressing-gown was very badly made. 

“ I find you in good spirits,” he said, glancing at the 
table, in the centre of which appeared the ruins of a 
colossal leg of mutton. 

“ The landlord ! ” said Rodolphe : “ let him receive 
the honors that are his due.” 

And he began to drum on his plate with his knife 
and fork. 

Colline offered him his chair, and Marcel cried : 

“Come, Schaunard, give monsieur a clean glass. — 
You came at a most opportune moment,” he said to the 


358 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

landlord. “We were just about drinking a toast to 
the property. My friend here ” — pointing to Colline — 
“ was making some very affecting remarks. As you have 
come, he will begin again in your honor. Begin again, 
Colline.” 

“ Excuse me, messieurs,” said the landlord, “ I do 
not wish to disturb you.” And he unfolded the little 
paper he had in his hand. 

“What is that document? ” inquired Marcel. 

The landlord, who had cast an inquisitional glance 
around the room, spied some gold and silver coins that 
had been left on the mantelpiece. 

“It’s the receipt,” he said quickly; “I have already 
had the honor of sending it to you.” 

“ In truth,” rejoined Marcel, “ my trusty memory 
recalls that detail perfectly ! it was on a Friday, 
October 8th, at quarter to twelve ; very good.” 

“ It bears my signature,” said the landlord, “ and if 
it’s convenient to you ” 

“Monsieur,” said Marcel, “I was intending to call 
upon you. I have much to say to you.” 

“ At your service.” 

“Then do me the honor to take a little refreshment,” 
said Marcel, forcing him to drink a glass of wine. 

“ Monsieur,” he continued, “ you sent me recently a 
little paper — with a cut representing a lady holding a 
pair of scales. The missive was signed Godard.” 

“ He is my bailiff,” said the landlord. 


MUSETTE'S WHIMS 


359 


“ He writes a vile hand,” said Marcel. “ My friend, 
who knows all languages,” — pointing to Colline — “ my 
friend was good enough to translate that communication, 
the carriage of which cost five francs — ” 

“ It was a notice to quit,” said the landlord, “a pre- 
cautionary measure. It’s the custom.” 

“A notice to quit, exactly,” said Marcel. “I wished 
to see you so that we might have a conference concern- 
ing that document, which I am anxious to change into 
a lease. This house pleases me, the halls are clean, the 
street is very lively, and then, family reasons, a thousand 
ties, attach me to these walls.” 

“But,” said the landlord, unfolding his receipt again, 
“ there is the last quarter’s rent to be settled.” 

“We will settle it, monsieur ; such is my earnest 
purpose.” 

Meanwhile the landlord had not taken his eyes from 
the mantelpiece where the money was, and the magnetic 
power of his covetous gaze was such that the coins seemed 
to move and walk toward him. 

“ I am very fortunate to arrive at a moment when we 
can adjust our little account without embarrassing you,” he 
said, handing the receipt to Marcel, who, being unable 
to parry the attack, dodged it and began once more with 
his creditor the scene between Don Juan and Monsieur 
Dimanche. 

“You have, I believe, property in the provinces?” 
he asked. 


360 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Oh ! very little,” was the reply ; “ a bit of a house in 
Bourgogne, a farm, a very small matter and small returns 
— the farmers don’t pay. — And so,” he added, still hold- 
ing out the receipt, “ this little windfall comes in very 
handily. — It is sixty francs, as you know.” 

“Sixty, yes,” said Marcel, walking to the mantelpiece, 
from which he took three gold pieces. “We call it 
sixty;” and he placed the three louis on the table at 
some distance from the landlord. 

“At last!” murmured the latter, his face suddenly 
lighting up ; and he laid his receipt on the table. 

Schaunard, Colline and Rodolphe anxiously watched 
the progress of the scene. 

“ Parblen ! monsieur,” said Marcel, “as you’re a Bur- 
gundian, you won’t refuse to say a couple of words to a 
compatriot.” 

And, drawing the cork from a bottle of old Macon, he 
filled a glass for the landlord. 

“ Ah ! delicious,” he exclaimed ; “ I never tasted 
better.” 

“ An uncle of mine who lives down that way sends me 
a basket from time to time.” 

The landlord had risen and was putting out his hand 
toward the money in front of him, when Marcel checked 
him again. 

“You won’t refuse to drink with me once more,” he 
said, filling the landlord’s glass anew and forcing him to 
drink with himself and the other Bohemians. 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


361 


The landlord dared not refuse. He drank again, put 
down his glass, and essayed once more to take the 
money, when Marcel cried : 

“ By the way, monsieur, an idea has just come into 
my head. I am rather flush just at this moment. My 
uncle in Burgundy has sent me a little something in ad- 
dition to my allowance. I am afraid I may squander 
the money. Youth is wild, you know. — If you don’t 
mind I’ll pay you a quarter’s rent in advance.” 

He took sixty francs more in three-franc pieces and 
added them to the louis already on the table. 

“Then I’ll give you a receipt for the next quarter,” 
said the landlord. “ I have a blank in my pocket,” he 
added, producing his wallet. “ I will fill it out andante- 
date it. — Why this tenant of mine’s a delightful fellow,” 
he thought, gloating over the hundred and twenty francs. 

The three Bohemians, who utterly failed to understand 
Marcel’s diplomacy, were dumfounded by his last sug- 
gestion. 

“ But this chimney smokes, it’s very inconvenient.” 

“ Why haven’t you told me ? I would have sent for 
the chimney-builder,” said the landlord, who did not 
propose to be outdone in generous dealing. “ To-mor- 
row, I will have the men here to attend to it.” And, 
having finished filling out the second receipt, he placed 
it beside the first, pushed them both in front of Marcel, 
and once more put out his hand toward the pile of money. 
“You wouldn’t believe how handily this money will come 


362 BOHEMIAN LIFE 

in,” he said. “ I have some bills for repairs to pay, and 
I was much embarrassed.” 

“I regret that I have kept you waiting,” said Marcel. 

“ Oh ! I was in no hurry — Messieurs, I have the 
honor — ” And his hand went out once more. 

“Oh, no ! allow me,” said Marcel; “we haven’t fin- 
ished yet. You know the proverb : ‘ When the wine is 
drawn, etc.’ ” 

And he filled the landlord’s glass anew. 

“ We must drink ” 

“ That is true,” said the landlord, resuming his seat 
for politeness’ sake. 

At that point Marcel darted a glance at the Bohe- 
mians, from which they divined his purpose. 

Meanwhile the landlord’s eyes were beginning to roll 
in strange fashion. He swayed back and forth in his 
chair, made obscene remarks, and promised to make 
fabulous improvements in the apartment, when Marcel 
asked him for some slight repairs. 

“ Bring up the heavy artillery ! ” said the artist in an 
undertone to Rodolphe, pointing to a bottle of rum. 

After the first petit verre, the landlord sang an inde- 
cent song that made even Schaunard blush. 

After the second petit verre , he narrated his conjugal 
infelicities; and, as his wife’s name was Helen, he 
compared himself to Menelaus. 

After the third petit verre , he had an attack of philos- 
ophy, and evolved aphorisms like these : 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


3 6 3 


“ Life is a river.” 

“Wealth does not bring happiness.” 

“ Man is an ephemeral creature.” 

“ Ah ! how delightful is love ! ” 

And, taking Schaunard for his confidant, he told him 
of his clandestine intrigue with a young girl whom he 
had surrounded with mahogany and whose name was 
Euph£mie. And he drew the girl’s portrait in such de- 
tail, dwelling upon her artless tenderness, that Schau- 
nard began to be agitated by a strange suspicion, which 
became certainty when the landlord showed him a letter 
which he took from his wallet. 

“ Oh ! Heaven ! ” cried Schaunard when he saw the 
signature. “ Cruel girl ! you plunge a dagger in my 
heart ! ” 

“What, then, is the matter ?” cried the Bohemians, 
amazed at that language from him. 

“See,” said Schaunard, “this letter is from Ph£mie ; 
see the blot she uses as a signature.” And he passed 
around his former mistress’s letter ; it began thus : 

“ My great louf-louf ! 

“I am her great louf-louf," said the landlord, trying 
to rise, but without success. 

“Good,” said Marcel, who was watching him; “he 
has thrown his anchor over.” 

“ Ph£mie ! cruel Ph£mie ! ” murmured Schaunard, 
“you cause me much suffering.” 

“ I’ve furnished a little entresol for her on Rue Co- 


364 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


quenard, number 12,” said the landlord. “ It’s pretty, 
very pretty — it cost me a lot of money. But true love 
is beyond price, and then I have twenty thousand francs 
a year. — She asks me for money,” he continued, taking 
back the letter. “ Poor love ! — I will give her this, it 
will please her ; ” and he put forth his hand toward the 
money placed on the table by Marcel. “ How’s this ! 
how’s this ! ” he exclaimed in surprise, feeling about on 
the table, “Where is it ?” 

The money had disappeared. 

“ It is impossible for a man of honor to lend a hand 
to such shameful proceedings,” said Marcel. “ My 
conscience, as well as good morals, forbid me to pour 
my rent into the hands of this old rake. I will not pay 
my rent. At all events, my mind will be without re- 
morse. What morals ! a man so bald as he ! ” 

Meanwhile the landlord had lost his wits completely 
and in a loud voice was making absurd speeches to the 
bottles. 

As he had been absent two hours, his wife had be- 
come anxious and sent their maidservant in search of 
him. She made a great outcry when she saw him. 

“ What have you done to my master ? ” she asked the 
Bohemians. 

“Nothing,” said Marcel; “he came up just now to 
demand his rent ; as we hadn’t the money to give him, 
we asked him for time.” 

“But he’s been and got drunk,” said the woman. 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


3 6 5 

“ The largest part of that job was already done,’’ said 
Rodolphe ; “ when he came here he told us he’d been 
putting his cellar in order.” 

“And he had so little idea what he was about,” added 
Colline, “ that he wanted to leave us the receipts without 
the money.” 

“ You can give them to his wife,” said the painter, re- 
turning the receipts ; “ we are honest men, and we don’t 
want to take advantage of his condition.” 

" O mon Dien / what will madame say ? ” said the 
servant, dragging away the landlord, who could no longer 
stand erect. 

“At last ! ” cried Marcel. 

“ He’ll come back to-morrow,” said Rodolphe ; “he 
saw the money.” 

“When he comes again,” said the artist, “I’ll threaten 
to tell his wife about his relations with young Phemie, 
and he’ll give us time.” 

When the landlord had disappeared, the four friends 
resumed their smoking and drinking. Marcel alone had 
retained some resemblance of lucidity of mind in his in- 
toxication. Again and again, at the slightest sound of a 
footfall in the hall, he ran and opened the door. But 
all those who came upstairs stopped on the lower floors ; 
thereupon the artist would slowly return to his seat in 
the chimney-corner. The clock struck twelve and Mu- 
sette had not appeared. 

“ Perhaps she wasn’t at home when my letter was de- 


366 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


livered,” thought Marcel. “She will find it when she 
goes home to-night, and will come to-morrow; there 
will still be a fire. It isn’t possible that she won’t come 
at all. Until to-morrow.” And he fell asleep in his 
chair. 

At the very moment that Marcel fell asleep, thinking 
of her, Mademoiselle Musette left her friend Madame 
Sidonie, in whose apartments she had remained until 
then. She was not alone ; a young man accompanied 
her, a carriage was waiting at the door and they both got 
in ; the horses started off at a gallop. 

The game of lansquenet was still in progress at Ma- 
dame Sidonie’s. 

“Where’s Musette?” someone suddenly asked. 

“Where’s little Seraphin? ” said another. 

Madame Sidonie began to laugh. 

“They have just run away together,” she said. “By 
the way, it’s a curious story. What a strange creature 
that Musette is ! Just imagine — ” 

And she told the company how Musette, after almost 
falling out with Vicomte Maurice, after starting to go to 
Marcel’s, had dropped in to see her for a moment by 
mere chance, and had met young Seraphin there. 

“ Oh ! I suspected something,” said Sidonie, break- 
ing off her narrative ; “ I watched them all the evening ; 
that little fellow’s no fool. In a word,” she continued, 
“ they went away without so much as a * by your leave,’ 
and. it would take a shrewd man to catch them. Upon 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 367 

my word, it’s very amusing, when you think that Musette 
is mad over her Marcel.” 

“ If she’s mad over him, what does she want of S6ra- 
phin, who’s almost a child? he’s never had a mistress,” 
observed a young man. 

“ She means to teach him to read,” said the journalist, 
who was very stupid when he had lost. 

“True,” rejoined Sidonie, “as she loves Marcel, why 
S£raphin? that’s beyond me.” 

“Alas! why?” 

For five days the Bohemians led the most joyous life 
imaginable, without once leaving the house. They sat 
at table from morning till night. Admirable confusion 
reigned in the room, which was filled with a Pantagrue- 
lian atmosphere. Upon an almost perfect bed of oys- 
ter shells lay an army of bottles of various shapes. The 
table was laden with debris of every description, and a 
whole forest was burning on the hearth. 

On the sixth day Colline, who was master of cere- 
monies, prepared, as he did every day, the menu for 
breakfast, dinner, afternoon luncheon and supper, and 
submitted it for the approval of his friends, each of whom 
embellished it with his flourish in token of acquiescence. 

But when Colline opened the drawer which did duty 
as a cash-box, to take therefrom the necessary money to 
pay for the day’s entertainment, he recoiled and turned 
as pale as Banquo’s ghost. 


368 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ What’s the matter?” the others asked carelessly. 

“ The matter is that there’s only thirty sous left,” said 
the philosopher. 

“The devil ! the devil ! ” said the others, “that will 
require a readjustment of our menu. However, thirty 
sous well employed ! — we shall find it hard work to in- 
clude truffles, all the same.” 

A few moments later the breakfast was served. On 
the table were three dishes, arranged with the utmost 
symmetry : 

A dish of herrings ; 

A dish of potatoes ; 

A dish of cheese. 

On the fireplace two small sticks about as large as 
one’s fist were smoking. 

Out of doors the snow was still falling. 

The four Bohemians seated themselves at the table 
and gravely unfolded their napkins. 

“It’s a strange thing,” said Marcel, “but this herring 
tastes like a pheasant.” 

“That’s on account of the way I prepared it,” retorted 
Colline ; “ the herring has never been appreciated.” 

At that moment a lively song came running upstairs 
and knocked at the door. Marcel, who could not re- 
strain a start, ran and threw the door open. 

Musette leaped on his neck and held him in a close 
embrace for five minutes. Marcel could feel her tremble 
in his arms. 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


3 6 9 


“ What’s the matter? ” he asked. 

“ I am cold,” said Musette, instinctively drawing near 
the hearth. 

“ Ah ! ” said Marcel, “ we have had such a good 
fire ! ” 

“Yes,” said Musette, glancing at the remains of the 
five days’ feasting ; “ I have come too late.” 

“Why? ” said Marcel. 

“Why?” she repeated, blushing a little. She sat on 
Marcel’s knee ; she was still trembling and her hands 
were purple. 

“ You are not free, are you? ” Marcel whispered in her 
ear. 

“ I ! not free S ” cried the lovely girl. “ Ah ! Marcel, 
if I were sitting among the stars in the good Lord’s 
paradise, and you should make a sign to me, I would 
come down to you. I ! not free ! ” She began to 
tremble anew. 

“ There are five chairs here,” said Rodolphe, “ it’s an 
odd number, and, besides that, one of them is of an ab- 
surd shape.” 

He broke the chair against the wall and threw the 
pieces on the hearth. The fire suddenly came to life 
and burned with a bright, cheerful flame. The poet 
thereupon motioned to Colline and Schaunard and took 
them away with him. 

“ Where are you going ? ” Marcel asked them. 

“We are going to buy some tobacco,” they replied. 

24 


37 o 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“To Havana,” added Schaunard, making a sign to 
Marcel, who thanked him with a glance. 

“ Why didn’t you come sooner?” he asked Musette 
when they were alone. 

“True, I am a little late ” 

“ Five days to cross Pont Neuf ! Did you come by 
way of the Pyrenees?” 

Musette hung her head and did not speak. 

“Ah ! you bad girl ! ” continued the artist in a melan- 
choly tone, tapping his mistress’s breast with his hand. 
“ What have you under there ? ” 

“You know very well,” she replied eagerly. 

“ But what have you been doing since I wrote 
you ? ” 

“ Don’t question me!” rejoined Musette, hastily kiss- 
ing him again and again ; “ don’t ask me any questions ! 
let me warm myself beside you, while it’s cold. You see, 
I put on my prettiest dress to come to you. Poor Maurice, 
he couldn’t understand what it meant when I started to 
come here ; but I couldn’t help it — I started — How 
good the fire feels ! ” she added, stretching out her little 
hands to the flame. “ I will stay with you till to-morrow. 
Do you want me to ? ” 

“ It will be very cold here,” said Marcel, “ and we 
have nothing for dinner. You came too late,” he re- 
peated. 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Musette, “ it will be all the more like 


old times.” 


MUSETTE’S WHIMS 


37 1 


Rodolphe, Colline, and Schaunard remained away 
twenty-four hours in their quest for tobacco. When 
they returned to the house, Marcel was alone. 

After six days’ absence, Musette returned to Vicomte 
Maurice. 

He did not reproach her, but simply asked her why 
she seemed sad. 

“ I have quarrelled with Marcel,” she replied, “ we 
parted on bad terms.” 

“And yet,” said Maurice, “who knows ? you may go 
back to him again.” 

“What do you expect?” said Musette, “I need to 
go back from time to time and breathe the air of that 
life. My foolish existence is like a song ; each of my 
love affairs is a stanza, but Marcel is the refrain.” 












XX 

MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 

I 

“ Oh ! no, no, no, you are no longer Lisette ! Oh ! 
no, no, no, you are no longer Mimi ! 

“ To-day you are Madame la Vicomtesse ; the day after 
to-morrow perhaps you will be Madame la Duchesse, for 
you have placed your foot on the staircase of grandeur ; 
the door of your dreams is at last wide open before you, 
and you have gone in thereat, victorious and triumphant. 
I was very sure that you would end thus some night or 
other. Indeed it could not be otherwise ; your white 
hands were made for indolence and have long cried for the 
ring of an aristocratic alliance. At last you have a coat 
of arms ! But we still prefer the blazonry that youth im- 
parted to your beauty which, by reason of your blue eyes 
and your pale face, seemed to quarter azure on a field of 
lilies. Noble or plebeian, you are always charming ; and 
I recognized you when you passed me the other evening 
on the street, walking swiftly on your daintily shod feet, 

(373) 


374 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


assisting, with one gloved hand, the wind to raise the 
folds of your new dress, partly not to soil it, but much 
more to afford a glimpse of your embroidered petticoats 
and your transparent stockings. You wore a hat of marvel- 
ous construction, and you seemed plunged in deep per- 
plexity on the subject of the rich lace veil that fluttered 
over that hat. Very grave perplexity, in sooth, for you 
wished to ascertain whether it would be better and more 
profitable to your coquetry to wear that veil raised or 
lowered. If you wore it lowered, you ran the risk of not 
being recognized by those' of your friends whom you 
might chance 1 to meet, and who would certainly have 
passed you ten times without suspicion that that ample 
envelope concealed Mademoiselle Mimi. On the other 
hand, if you wore it raised, the veil' itself ran the risk of 
not being seen, and in that case, what was the use of 
having it ? You cleverly solved the difficulty, by lower- 
ing and raising alternately, every ten steps, that piece of 
marvelous- tissue, woven doubtless in that country of 
spiders called Flanders, and worth, in itself alone, more 
than the whole of your former wardrobe. Ah ! Mimi — 
I beg your pardon — -Madame la Vicomtesse ! I was 
right, you see, when I said to you : ‘ Patience, do not 
despair; the future is pregnant with cashmeres, gleam- 
ing jewels/ little supper-parties, etc.’ — You would not 
believe me, incredulous creature ! Nevertheless, my 
prophecies are fulfilled and I am on a par, I trust, with 
your Ladies * Oracle , a little sorcerer in i8mo., that you 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


375 

bought for five sous at a second-hand bookstore on Pont 
Neuf and have worn out by everlasting questioning. 
Once more I ask you, was I not right in my prophecies, 
and would you believe me now if I should tell you that you 
won’t stop where you are ? Suppose I should tell you 
that by pricking up my ears I can already hear vaguely, 
in the distant recesses of your future, the stamping and 
neighing of horses, harnessed to a blue-lined coup£, 
driven by a bepowdered coachman who lowers the step 
for you, saying : 1 Where will madame go ? ’ Would you 
believe me if I should tell you also that, later on — oh ! 
Mon Dieu ! at the latest possible moment — attaining 
the goal of a long-cherished ambition, you will keep a 
table-d’hote at Belleville, or Batignolles, and will be 
courted by veteran > soldiers , and retired gallants, who 
will come to your house to play lansquenet and baccarat 
on the sly ? But, before that time arrives, when the sun 
of your youth will already have set, believe me, dear 
child, you will wear out. many a yard of silk and velvet; 
many patrimonies, I doubt not, will melt, away in the 
crucibles of your whims; many flowers will wither upon 
your brow and many, you will trample under your feet; 
many times you will change your crest. We shall see 
gleaming upon your head, one, after, another, the baron- 
ess’s fillet, the countess’s coronet and the pearl-be- 
sprinkled diadem of a marchioness; you will take for 
your motto : Inconstancy , and you will have the art of 
satisfying, each in his turn, according to the dictates of 


37 ^ 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


caprice or necessity, all the numerous adorers who will 
stand in line in the antechambers of your heart, as 
people stand at the door of the theatre where a popular 
play is being performed. Go on therefore, go your way, 
with your mind relieved of the weight of memories 
which ambition has replaced ; go on, it is a beautiful 
road and we pray that it may long be soft to your feet ; 
but we hope above all things that all these luxuries, all 
these lovely dresses will not too soon become the winding- 
sheet in which your gayety will be enshrouded.” 

Thus spake the painter Marcel to young Mademoiselle 
Mimi, whom he chanced to meet three or four days after 
her second divorce from the poet Rodolphe. Although 
he did his best to put a check on the mocking remarks 
with which her horoscope was studded, Mademoiselle 
Mimi was not deceived by Marcel’s fine words, and un- 
derstood perfectly that, having little respect for her new 
title, he was making sport of her pitilessly. 

“ You are unkind to me, Marcel,” said Mimi, “ and 
it isn’t fair; I was always good to you when I was 
Rodolphe’s mistress ; but, if I did leave him, it' was his 
own fault. He sent me away almost without notice; 
and how he treated me the last few days I was with 
him ! I was very unhappy, I tell you ! You don’t 
know what sort of a man Rodolphe is; a disposition 
made up of anger and jealousy, that was killing me by 
inches. He loved me, I know that, but his love was as 
dangerous as a gun ; and what a life I led for fifteen 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


377 


months. Ah ! you see, Marcel, I can’t make myself any 
better than I am, but I suffered terribly with Rodolphe, 
and you know it too. It wasn’t the poverty that made 
me leave him, no, I assure you it wasn’t, I was used to 
that from the first ; and then, I say again, it was he who 
sent me away. He trod with both feet on my self- 
esteem ; he told me that I had no heart if I stayed with 
him ; he told me that he didn’t love me any longer and 
that I must look for another lover ; he even went so far 
as to mention a young man who was paying court to me, 
and, by challenging me that way, he formed a sort of con- 
necting link between me and that young man. I went 
with him as much from spite as from necessity, for I 
didn’t love him ; you know well enough yourself that I 
don’t like such young men, they’re as tiresome and senti- 
mental as harmonicas. However, what is done is done, 
and I don’t regret it and I would do the same thing 
again under the same circumstances. Now that he 
hasn’t me with him and knows that I’m happy with 
someone else, Rodolphe is furious and very miserable ; I 
know someone who met him not long ago ; his eyes were 
red. That doesn’t surprise me, I knew it would be 
so and that he’d run after me ; but you can tell him 
that he’s throwing his time away and that this time 
it’s all over in earnest, and for good and all. — Is it 
long since you saw him, Marcel, and is it true that 
he’s very much changed? asked Mimi in a different 
tone.” 


37 » 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“Very much changed, . indeed,” replied Marcel. 
“ Tremendously, changed.” 

“He is in despair, that’s sure ; but what do you want 
me to do? . So much the worse for him ! It’s his doing ; 
it had to . come to an end some time or other. . You must 
console him.” 

“Oh ! ” said Marcel coolly, “ the hardest part of that 
task is done. . Don’t you worry, Mimi.” 

“You’re not telling the truth, my dear man,” retorted 
Mimi with a little sarcastic pout : “ Rodolphe would 
never be. comforted so soon as this ; if you knew what a 
state I .saw him in the night before I left him ! It was 
Friday; I preferred not to stay that night with my new 
lover, because I am superstitious, and Friday’s, an un- 
lucky day.” 

“ You are wrong, Mimi : in love Friday’s a lucky, day ; 
Dies Veneris, the ancients called it.” 

“ I, don’t. know Latin,” said Mademoiselle Mimi, and 
continued: “ So I returned from Paul’s house ; I found 
Rodolphe waiting for me and pacing the street like a 
sentinel. It was late, after midnight, and I was hungry, 
for I had had a wretched dinner. I begged Rodolphe 
to go and get something for supper. He came back in 
about half an hour ; he had gone a long way and brought 
little or nothing : bread, wine, sardines, cheese, and an 
apple tart. I had gone to bed while he was away ; he 
set the table beside the bed ; I didn’t seem to be looking 
at him but I watched him closely ; he was as pale as 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


379 

death and shivering, and he wandered round the room 
like a man who didn’t know what he wanted. He spied 
several bundles of clothes on the floor* in a corner. The 
sight seemed to hurt him and he put the screen in front 
of them so that he couldn’t see them. '* When everything 
was ready we began to eat ; he tried to make me drink, 
but I was no longer hungry or thirsty and * my heart 
ached. It was cold, for we had nothing' to build a fire 
with; you could hear the wind blowing down the 
chimney. It was very melancholy. Rodolphe looked at 
me ; his eyes were fixed ; he put his hand in mine and I 
felt it tremble ; it was both burning hot and icy cold. 

“‘This is the funeral supper of our love,’ he 'said to 
me in an undertone. I made no reply, but I* hadn’t the 
courage to take my hand away from his. • 

“‘I am sleepy,’ I said at last; ‘it’s late, let’s go to 
sleep.’ He looked at me; I had put one of his cravats 
over my head to protect me from the cold ; he ‘took it 
off without speaking. 

“ ‘ Why do you take that off ? ’ I asked him ; ‘lam 
cold.’ 

“ ‘ O Mimi,’ he said, ‘ I beg of you, put on your little 
striped cap just for to-night ; it won’t hurt you to do it.’ 

“ It was a brown and white striped cotton nightcap 
that he meant. Rodolphe loved to see me in it, for it 
reminded him of some happy nights — that was what we 
called our happy days. Thinking that it was the last 
time I should sleep beside him, I didn’t dare refuse to 


3 So 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


gratify his whim : I got up and went and found my cap, 
which was at the bottom of one of my bundles ; I care- 
lessly forgot to replace the screen ; Rodolphe noticed 
it and put it in front of the bundles as he had done 
before. 

“ ‘ Good-night,’ said he. — ‘ Good-night,’ I answered. 

“ I thought he was going to kiss me, and I shouldn’t 
have prevented him, but he simply took my hand and 
put it to his lips. You know, Marcel, what a fellow he 
was for kissing one’s hands. I heard his teeth chatter 

and I felt that his body was as cold as marble. He 

continued to hold my hand and he put his head on my 
shoulder, which was soon all wet. Rodolphe was in a 
horrible condition. He bit the sheets to keep from 
crying out ; but I could hear the smothered sobs, and I 
could feel the tears running down over my shoulder, 

which they burned at first and then froze. I needed all 

my courage at that moment ; and it came near failing 
me, I tell you. I had only to say a word, I had only to 
turn my head, and my mouth would have met Rodolphe’s 
and we should have been reconciled once more. Ah ! 
for a moment I really thought he would die in my arms, 
or that he would go mad, at the very least, as he nearly 
did once before, do you remember ? I was on the point 
of yielding, I felt it ; I was on the point of taking the 
first step, of throwing my arms round him, for really one 
must have no heart at all to be untouched by such grief. 
But I remembered the words he had said to me the 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


38l 


night before : ‘You have no heart if you stay with me, 
for I no longer love you.’ Ah ! when I remembered 
those harsh words, if I had seen Rodolphe at the point 
of death, and I could have saved him by one kiss, by 
simply moving my lips, I would have let him die. At 
last, being thoroughly tired out, I fell into a doze. I could 
still hear him sobbing, and I give you my word, Marcel, 
that sobbing lasted all night long ; and when the morn- 
ing came and I looked at the lover I was leaving to go 
to another’s arms, lying in the bed I had slept in for the 
last time, I was horribly frightened when I saw the rav- 
ages grief had made on his face. 

“ He rose, as I did, without a word, and almost fell 
on the floor the first step he took, he was so weak and 
crushed. However, he dressed very quickly and simply 
asked me how I stood and when I was going away. I 
told him that I had no idea. He went away without 
saying good-bye, without shaking hands. That is how 
we parted. What a blow in the heart it must have given 
him not to find me there when he came home, eh ? ” 

“ I was there when he came home,” said Marcel to 
Mimi, who was out of breath from having talked so long. 
“ As he took his key from the landlady, she said : 

“ ‘ The little one has gone.’ 

“ ‘ Oh ! I’m not surprised,’ said Rodolphe, ‘ I expected 
it.’ And he went up to his room. I followed him, fear- 
ing some outburst ; but there was nothing of the sort. 

“ ‘ As it’s too late to go and hire another room to- 


3 82 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


night, we’ll do it to-morrow,’ he said ; ‘ we’ll go together. 
Now let’s go to dinner.’ 

“ I thought that he meant to get tipsy ; but I was 
mistaken. We had a very quiet dinner at a restaurant 
where you and he used to go sometimes. I ordered 
some Beaune to make him forget himself a little. 

“ 1 That was Mimi’s favorite wine,’ he said ; 4 we have 
often drunk it together at this very table where we are 
now. I remember she said to me one day, holding out 
her glass, which she had already emptied several times : 
“ Give me some more, it pours balm ( baume ) into my 
heart.” — That was a poor pun, wasn’t it ? worthy of the 
mistress of a vaudeville-writer, at best. Ah ! she was a 
good drinker, was Mimi.’ 

“ Seeing that he was inclined to lose his way in the 
winding paths of reminiscence, I spoke of something 
else, and you weren’t mentioned again. He passed the 
whole evening with me and seemed as calm as the Med- 
iterranean. What astonished me most was that there 
was no affectation about his calmness. It was genuine 
indifference. We returned home at midnight. 

u 1 You seem surprised at my tranquillity in my present 
position,’ he said ; ‘ just let me draw a comparison, my 
dear fellow, and, although it may be commonplace, it 
has the merit of being fair at all events. My heart is 
like a fountain, whose stopcock has been left open all 
night ; in the morning not a single drop of water is left. 
The same is literally true of my heart ; I wept last night 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


383 


all the tears I had left. It is a strange thing; but I 
fancied that I had a greater store of grief, and, after a 
single night of suffering, here I am ruined, completely 
run dry, on my honor ! it’s just as I tell you ; and in 
that same bed where I nearly gave up the ghost last 
night, beside a woman who was no more moved than a 
stone, I propose to sleep to-night like a porter who has 
done a hard day’s work, now that that woman’s head is 
resting on somebody else’s pillow.’ 

“ ‘ Acting,’ I said to myself ; ‘ I shall no sooner be out 
of the room than he’ll bang his head against the wall.’ 
However, I left him alone and went up to my own 
room, but I did not go to bed. At three o’clock in the 
morning I thought I heard a noise in Rodolphe’s room, 
and I ran down in hot haste, expecting to find him in 
the midst of some desperate paroxysm — ” 

“Well?” said Mimi. 

“ Well, my dear girl, Rodolphe was asleep, the bed 
was not tossed up, and everything went to prove that 
his sleep had been peaceful, and that he had not been 
slow about going to sleep.” 

“ That’s very possible,” said Mimi ; “ he was so tired 
out from the night before, — but what about the next 
day? ” 

“ The next day Rodolphe waked me in good season, 
and we went out and hired rooms in another house, and 
moved into them the same evening.” 

“ And what did he do when he left the room we 


384 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


occupied together? ” queried Mimi ; “what did he say 
when he turned his back on the room where he had 
loved me so dearly? ” 

“ He quietly packed up his clothes,” said Marcel ; 
“ and as he found in a drawer a pair of thread gloves 
that you had forgotten, and some letters, also belonging 
to you ” 

“ I know,” said Mimi, in a tone that seemed to im- 
ply : I forgot them on purpose so that he might have 
something to remember me by. “ What did he do with 
them? ” she added. 

“ I think I remember,” said Marcel, “ that he threw 
the letters into the fireplace and the gloves out of the 
window ; but without any posing or theatrical business, 
in a perfectly natural way, just as anyone does when he 
gets rid of something that’s of no use.” 

“ My dear Monsieur Marcel, I assure you that I hope 
with all my heart that this indifference will last. But 
once more I tell you frankly that I don’t believe in such 
a rapid cure, and, in spite of all you tell me, I am per- 
suaded that my poet’s heart is broken.” 

“ That may be,” replied Marcel, as he left her ; 
“ but, unless I am much mistaken, the pieces are still in 
good order.” 

During this colloquy on the public highway, Monsieur 
le Vicomte Paul was awaiting his new mistress, who was 
late and made herself extremely disagreeable to mon- 
sieur le vicomte. He lay at her feet and cooed his 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


385 

favorite song, to wit : that she was charming, as pale 
as the moon, as gentle as a lamb ; but that he loved 
her above all things because of the beauties of her mind. 

“ Ah ! ” thought Mimi as she loosened the brown 
waves of her hair, which fell over her snow-white 
shoulders, “ my lover Rodolphe was not so particular.” 

II. 

As Marcel had said, Rodolphe seemed to be radically 
cured of his love for Mademoiselle Mimi, and three or 
four days after their separation the poet reappeared in 
the world completely metamorphosed. He was dressed 
with an elegance which must have made him unrec- 
ognizable even to his mirror. Nor was there any- 
thing about him calculated to arouse the ‘ fear that he 
anticipated hurling himself into the abyss of self-de- 
struction, as Mademoiselle Mimi reported with all sorts 
of hypocritical expressions of sorrow. Rodolphe was 
perfectly calm ; he listened without the slightest change 
of feature to the stories that were told him of the mag- 
nificence of the new life led by his mistress, who took 
pleasure in causing information concerning herself to be 
imparted to him by a young woman who was still in her 
confidence-, and who had occasion to see Rodolphe 
almost every evening. 

“ Mimi is very happy with Vicomte Paul,” she said to 
the poet; “she seems to be fairly crazed over him; 

25 


386 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


the only thing that troubles her is the fear that you will 
disturb her tranquillity by persecution, which might prove 
dangerous to you, by the way, for the viscount adores 
his mistress, and has had fencing lessons for two years.” 

“ Oh ! she can sleep in peace,” Rodolphe replied ; “ I 
have no desire to pour vinegar on the delights of her 
honeymoon. As for her young lover, he can safely leave 
his dagger hanging on the nail, like Gastibelza , the man 
with the carbine. I have no designs on the life of a 
gentleman who still has the good fortune to be nursed by 
illusions.” 

As they did not fail to report to Mimi the attitude in 
which her former lover received all these particulars, she 
did not forget to reply, with a shrug : 

“ That’s all right, that’s all right ; we’ll see what will 
come of it all a few days hence.” 

Meanwhile Rodolphe himself was greatly astonished — 
more so than anybody else — at this sudden indifference, 
which succeeded the violent tempests that had stirred his 
soul a few days before, without the usual transition by 
way of depression and melancholy. Forgetfulness, which 
is so slow in coming, especially for the disappointed in 
love — the forgetfulness which they call to their assistance 
with a great outcry and as loudly repulse when they feel 
that it is approaching them, — that pitiless comforter had 
suddenly, without giving him time to defend himself, 
invaded Rodolphe’s heart, and the name of the woman 
he had loved so well fell upon it thenceforth without 


M1MI WEARS FEATHERS 


3 8 7 


arousing an echo. Strangely enough, Rodolphe, whose 
memory was powerful enough to recall to his mind things 
that had happened in the most distant past, and the 
people who had figured in his earliest days, or exerted 
any influence thereon — Rodolphe, try as hard as he 
would, could not, after four days of separation, recall 
distinctly the features of the mistress who had nearly 
shattered his existence in her slender hands. He could 
no longer recall the gentle expression of the eyes in 
whose beams he had so often fallen asleep. He could 
no longer recall the tones of that voice, whose angry in- 
flections and tender caresses drove him to frenzy. A 
friend of his, a poet, who had not seen him since his 
divorce, met him one evening ; Rodolphe seemed very 
busy and thoughtful ; he was walking rapidly along the 
street, swinging his cane. 

“ Well, here you are at last ! ” said the poet, extend- 
ing his hand ; and he examined Rodolphe with interest. 

Seeing that his face was a little long, he thought best 
to adopt a sympathetic tone. 

“ Come, cheer up, my dear fellow ; I know it’s hard, 
but it would have had to come at last ; better now than 
later ; in three months you will be completely cured.” 

“ What’s this song you’re singing?” said Rodolphe, 
“ I am not sick, my dear man.” 

“Oh ! don’t try to bluff,” said the other; “ parbleu ! 
I know the story, and even if I didn’t know it I could 
read it on your face.” 


3 88 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Look out, you’re going astray,” said Rodolphe. “ I 
am much annoyed to-night, it is true ; but, when it 
comes to the cause of my annoyance, you haven’t exactly 
put your finger on it.” 

“ Nonsense! what’s the use of protesting? it’s 
natural enough ; a liaison that has lasted two years isn’t 
to be broken off quietly like that.” 

“ They all sing the same song,” said Rodolphe im- 
patiently. “ Upon my honor, you are mistaken, you and 
all the rest. I am very much depressed and I show it, 
that is possible ; but this is the reason : I expected my 
tailor, who was to bring me a new coat to-day, and he 
didn’t come ; that is why I am annoyed.” 

“ Very bad, very bad,” said the other with a laugh. 

“Not by any means; very good, on the contrary, 
very good, excellent. Follow my reasoning and you will 
see.” 

“Go on,” said the poet, “I am listening; just show 
me how a man can in reason have such a melancholy air 
because a tailor breaks his word. Go on, go on, I am 
waiting.” 

“ Why, you are well aware,” said Rodolphe, “ that small 
causes produce the greatest effects. I was to make a 
very important call this evening, and I can’t do it because 
I haven’t my new coat. Do you understand? ” 

“ No. That’s no sufficient reason for such despair as 
yours. You are in despair, because — because — You are 
very foolish to pose with me. That’s my opinion.” 


M1MI WEARS FEATHERS 


389 


“My friend,” said Rodolphe, “ you are very obstinate ; 
there is always cause for despair when one misses a 
stroke of good fortune or at the least a pleasure, because 
it is almost always so much lost, and one is very wrong 
to say, apropos of either : ‘ I shall find it again some 
day.’ I resume : I had an appointment for this evening 
with a young woman ; I was to meet her at a house 
from which I might perhaps have taken her home with 
me, if that had been shorter than to go to her own home, 
or even if it had been longer. In that house there was to 
be a party ; one cannot attend a party except in a dress 
coat ; I have no dress coat and my tailor was to bring 
me one ; he does not bring it, I do not go to the party, 
I do not meet the young woman, whom somebody else 
does meet perhaps ; I do not take her to my house nor 
to her own, whither, perhaps, she is escorted by another. 
Thus, as I was telling you, I have missed either good 
fortune or pleasure ; therefore I am in despair, therefore 
I have that appearance, and it is perfectly natural.” 

“ Very good,” said his friend ; “ and so, with one foot 
hardly out of one hell, you put the other foot in another ; 
but, my good friend, when I met you here just now, you 
looked to me as if you were waiting for some one.” 

“ That is just what I was doing.” 

“ And we are in the very quarter where your former 
mistress lives ; how do I know that you were not waiting 
for her ? ” 

“ Although separated from her, private reasons have 


39 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


compelled me to remain in this quarter ; but, although 
neighbors, we are as far apart as if she were at one pole 
and I at the other. Moreover, at the present moment, 
my former mistress is sitting in her chimney corner, 
taking lessons in French grammar from Monsieur le 
Vicomte Paul, who proposes to lead her back to virtue 
by the path of syntax. Great God ! how he will spoil 
her ! However, that’s his business, now that he’s editor- 
in-chief of her happiness. So you see, your remarks are 
absurd, and instead of being on the vanished scent of 
my former passion, I am, on the other hand, on the scent 
of my new passion who is already my neighbor to a cer- 
tain extent, and who will soon become more so ; for I 
am willing to take whatever steps are necessary, and if 
she will do the rest we shall not be long in coming to an 
understanding.” 

“ Really?” said the poet, “you are in love already ? ” 

“ This is the condition I am in,” said Rodolphe : “ my 
heart resembles a lodging which is offered for hire as soon 
as one tenant moves out. When one love takes leave of 
my heart I put out a sign to attract another one. The 
rooms are very accessible and in perfect repair.” 

“And who is the new idol? where did you meet her? 
and when? ” 

“Let us proceed in order,” said Rodolphe. “When 
Mimi went away, I imagined that I should never be in 
love again in my life, and I imagined that my heart was 
dead of fatigue, of exhaustion, of whatever you choose. 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


39 1 


It had beaten so quickly, too quickly, for so long a time, 
that that result was not incredible. In short, I believed 
it was dead, quite dead, dead as a stone, and I was thinking 
of burying it, like Monsieur Marlborough. On that pre- 
text I gave a little funeral supper, to which I invited 
some of my friends. The guests were expected to wear 
a sorrowful expression, and the bottles had crepe tied 
around their necks.” 

“ You didn’t invite me ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon, but I didn’t know the address of 
the cloud in which you live.” 

“ One of the guests brought a woman, a young woman, 
who had been deserted by a lover within a short time. 
One of my friends, a fellow who plays very skilfully on 
the violoncello of sentiment, told her my story. He di- 
lated to the young widow on the qualities of my heart, 
the poor corpse that we were to bury, — and asked her to 
drink to its everlasting repose. ‘ Nonsense,’ she said, 
raising her glass, ‘ on the contrary, I drink to its very good 
health ’ ; and she shot a glance at me, a glance to wake 
the dead, as they say ; and then, or never, was an ap- 
propriate occasion for saying it, for she had not finished 
her toast when I felt that my heart was beginning to sing 
the O Filii of the Resurrection. What would you have 
done in my place? ” 

“ A pretty question ! — what’s her name? ” 

“ I don’t know, I shan’t ask her name until we sign 
our contract. I know that I haven’t waited long enough 


392 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


from the standpoint of some people; but, you see, I 
apply to myself for dispensation, and grant it to myself. 
I am sure that my future spouse will bring me as her 
marriage portion gayety, which is mental health, and 
health, which is physical gayety.” 

“ Is she pretty? ” 

“Very pretty, especially in her coloring; you would 
say that she washes her face in the morning with Wat- 
teau’s palette. 

“ ‘ She is most fair, my friend, and her victorious gaze 
In heart’s remotest corner stirs a blaze.’ 

Witness my heart.” 

“A blonde? you astonish me.” 

“ Yes, I’ve had enough ivory and ebony, and I propose 
to try a blonde ; ” and Rodolphe began to caper and 
sing: 

And we will sing a roundelay, 

If you deem meet, 

Unto my love, who’s fair I say 
As golden wheat. 

“ Poor Mimi,” said his friend, “ so soon forgotten ! ” 

That name, uttered in the midst of Rodolphe’s gayety, 
suddenly gave a different turn to the conversation. Ro- 
dolphe took his friend’s arm and told him at length the 
causes of his rupture with Mademoiselle Mimi ; the ter- 
rors that had assailed him when she had gone ; how he 
had been desperate because he thought that she had 


MIM1 WEARS FEATHERS 


393 


taken with her all that remained to him of youth and 
passion ; and how, two days later, he had found that he 
was mistaken, when he felt the gunpowder of his heart, 
drenched by the tears he had shed, become heated, take 
fire and explode under the first glance of youth and pas- 
sion cast at him by the first woman he had met. He 
described the sudden and resistless attack made upon 
him by forgetfulness before he could call for help for his 
grief, and how that grief had died and was buried in that 
forgetfulness. 

“ Isn’t it a miracle? ” he said to the poet, who know- 
ing by heart and from experience all the painful chapters 
in the fate of broken hearts, replied : 

“Why, no, my friend, it’s no more of a miracle in 
your case than in other cases. What has happened to you I 
have passed through myself. The women we love, when 
they become our mistresses, cease to be to us what they 
really are. We don’t see them with the eyes of the lover 
simply, but with the eyes of the poet as well. As a 
painter throws over a lay figure the imperial purple or 
the star-bespangled veil of a consecrated virgin, we always 
have storehouses of gorgeous cloaks and robes of pure 
white, which we throw over the shoulders of stupid, 
ill-humored or evil-minded creatures; and when they 
have donned the costume in which our ideal sweet- 
hearts were dressed in the azure of our reveries, we allow 
ourselves to be taken in by the disguise ; we incarnate 
our dream in the first woman who comes to hand, and 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


394 

talk to her in our language, which she does not under- 
stand. 

“ And when this creature, at whose feet we lie pros- 
trate, tears away with her own hands the divine envelope 
beneath which we have hidden her, so that we see more 
clearly her evil nature and her evil instincts ; when she 
puts her hand where her heart ought to be, but where 
nothing beats, where perhaps nothing ever has beaten ; 
when she puts aside her veil and shows us her dull eyes 
and her colorless lips and her withered features, we re- 
place the veil and cry : ‘ You lie ! you lie ! I love you 
and you love me, too ! That white breast is the envelope 
of a heart that retains all its youthfulness ; I love you and 
you love me ! You are young, you are lovely ! Behind 
all your vices there is love. I love you and you love me ! * 

“ And then, at last — oh ! it always comes at last — 
when, after having worn triple bandages over our eyes to 
no purpose, we discover that we are ourselves the dupes 
of our own errors, we spurn the wretched creature who 
was our idol yesterday ; we take from her the golden 
veils of our poetic imagination, to throw them anew to- 
morrow over the shoulders of a stranger, who is immedi- 
ately raised to the position of a haloed idol ; and that 
is what we all are, unnatural egotists, who love love for 
love’s sake ; you understand me, do you not ? — and we 
drink the divine liquor in the first glass that our hand 
falls upon.” 

“ ‘ What boots the cup, if one the drunkenness obtains.’ 


MIMI WEARS FEATHERS 


395 

“ What you say is as true as that two and two make 
four,” said Rodolphe. 

“ Yes,” was the reply, “ it is true and sad like most 
truths. Good-night.” 

Two days later, Mademoiselle Mimi learned that Ro- 
dolphe had a new mistress. She expressed curiosity on 
one subject only, — whether he kissed her hands as often 
as he used to kiss hers. 

“ Quite as often,” replied Marcel. “ And what’s 
more, he is kissing the hairs on her head one after an- 
other, and they are to stay together until he has kissed 
them all.” 

“ Ah ! ” said Mimi, running her hands through her 
hair, “ it’s very lucky that it didn’t occur to him to do 
that with me, or we should have stayed together all our 
lives. Tell me, do you think it’s really true that he 
doesn’t care for me at all any more?” 

“ Bah ! Do you still love him? ” 

“ I never loved him in my life.” 

“ Yes, Mimi, yes, you did love him at those times 
when a woman’s heart changes its place. You loved 
him, so don’t say you didn’t, for it’s your only justifi- 
cation.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” said Mimi, “ he loves someone else 
now.” 

“ Very true,” said Marcel, “but that doesn’t matter. 
Later, your memory will be to him like the flowers one 
places, all fresh and sweet, between the leaves of a 


39 6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


book, and finds, a long while after, dead and faded and 
withered, but with a sort of vague perfume, a shadow of 
their pristine sweetness, floating about them still.” 

One evening, when she w r as flitting about, humming 
softly, Monsieur le Vicomte Paul said to Mimi : 

“ What’s that you’re singing, my dear?” 

“ The funeral chant of our love, which Rodolphe, my 
former lover, has lately composed.” And she began to 
sing: 


I’ve not a sou, in such a plight the Code, 

My love, prescribes a blank in memory ; 

And tearless you, as for some antique mode, 
Will soon forget me, will you not, Mimi ? 

But never mind, we’ve spent, dear, as you know, 
Not counting nights, more than one happy day. 
What if they’ve not endured, why is’t not so ? 
Those are the best that swiftest glide away. 



XXI 


ROMEO AND JULIET 

/ 

Dressed like a fashion-plate from his journal, L’ E- 
charpe d’ Iris, gloved, polished, shaven, curled, with his 
moustache turned up at the ends, a stick in his hand, a 
monocle in his eye, blooming, rejuvenated, altogether 
bewitching : such was our friend the poet Rodolphe as 
he might have been seen one evening in the month 
of November, as he stood on the boulevard waiting for 
a carriage to take him home. 

Rodolphe waiting for a carriage? What cataclysm 
had suddenly taken place in his private life? 

At the same hour when the poet, thus metamor- 
phosed, was twisting his moustache, chewing a huge 
regalia, and fascinating the glances of the fair sex, a 
friend of his was also walking along the same boulevard. 
It was Gustave Colline, the philosopher. Rodolphe saw 
him coming and recognized him at once ; and who, 
among those who had seen him once, would not have 
recognized him ? Colline was laden, as always, with ten 
or twelve old books. Dressed in the immortal nut-brown 

(397) 


3 9 8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


coat whose durability led one to think that it was built 
by the Romans, and with the famous broad-brimmed 
hat on his head — a beaver dome, beneath which buzzed 
the swarm of hyperphysical dreams, and which had been 
dubbed the Mambrino’s helmet of modern philosophy — 
Gustave Colline walked slowly along, meditating over 
the preface of a work which had been three months in 
press — in his imagination. As he approached the spot 
where Rodolphe was standing, Colline thought for a 
moment that he recognized him ; but the extraordinary 
elegance displayed by the poet plunged the philosopher 
in doubt and uncertainty. 

“ Rodolphe with gloves, and a cane ! Chimera ! 
Utopia ! what a delusion ! Rodolphe with his hair 
curled ! when he has fewer hairs than Opportunity. 
Where was my brain? Besides, in these days my unfor- 
tunate friend is indulging in lamentations and compos- 
ing melancholy verses upon the departure of young 
Mademoiselle Mimi, who jilted him, so I have heard. 
On my word, I miss the young woman, for my part ; she 
had a very distinguished method of preparing coffee, 
which is the beverage for serious minds. But I like to 
think that Rodolphe will be consoled, and that he will 
soon take a new cafetiere .” 

Colline was so delighted with his wretched pun that 
he would gladly have shouted encore — if the solemn 
voice of philosophy had not spoken within him and 
energeticallv called a halt to that debauch of the mind. 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


399 


Meanwhile, as he had stopped beside Rodolphe, Col- 
line was compelled to surrender to the evidence ; it 
was Rodolphe himself, curled and gloved, and with a 
cane ; it was impossible, but it was true. 

“Well! well!” said Colline, “ parbleu ! I am not 
mistaken, it is really you ; I am sure of it.” 

“ And so am I,” said Rodolphe. 

Colline began to examine his friend, giving to his face 
the expression used by Monsieur Lebrun, the king’s 
painter, to express surprise. But suddenly he observed 
two strange objects in Rodolphe’s possession ! first, a 
rope ladder; second, a cage containing some sort of 
a bird. At sight of those objects, Gustave Colline’s face 
expressed a sentiment which Monsieur Lebrun, the 
king’s painter, forgot to include in his picture of the 
Passions. 

“I distinctly perceive the curiosity of your mind, 
which is looking out through the window of your eyes,” 
said Rodolphe to his friend, “and I will gratify it; 
but let us leave the public street, for it is cold enough 
to freeze your questions and my replies.” 

They both went into a cafe. 

Colline did not take his eyes from the rope-ladder 
nor from the cage in which the little bird, warmed by 
the atmosphere of the cafe, began to sing in a tongue 
unfamiliar to Colline, polyglot though he was. 

“Well, what is that thing ? ” said Colline, pointing to 
the ladder. 


400 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ That is a bond of union between my friend and my- 
self,” replied Rodolphe, with the accent of a mando- 
lin. 

“ And that ? ” said Colline, pointing to the bird. 

“That,” said the poet, whose voice became as soft as 
the song of the breeze, “is a clock.” 

“ Speak without parables, in humble prose, but com- 
prehensibly.” 

“Very good. Have you read Shakespeare? ” 

“ Have I read him ! To be or not to be . He was a 
great philosopher. Yes, I have read him.” 

“ Do you remember Romeo and Juliet? ” 

“ Do I remember it ! ” said Colline. 

And he began to recite : 

“ ‘ Wilt thou be gone ? it is not yet near day : 

It was the nightingale and not the lark 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear ; — ’ 

Parbleu ! yes, I remember it. What then? ” 

“What,” said Rodolphe, pointing to the ladder and 
the bird, “ don’t you understand? This is the poem : 
I am in love, my dear boy, in love with a woman named 
Juliet.” 

“Well, what then?” said Colline impatiently. 

“My new idol being called Juliet, I conceived the 
plan of working over Shakespeare’s drama with her. In 
the first place, my name is no longer Rodolphe, but 
Romeo Montague, and you will oblige me by calling me 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


401 


by no other name. Furthermore, in order that every 
one may know it, I have had some new visiting cards 
engraved. But that is not all : I propose to take ad- 
vantage of the fact that this is not carnival time to 
dress in a velvet doublet and carry a sword.” 

“To kill Tybalt? ” said Colline. 

“ Precisely. And this ladder that you see is for use 
in gaining access to my mistress, who happens to have a 
balcony.” 

“ But the bird, the bird ? ” said the obstinate Colline. 

“ Parb leu ! this bird, which is a pigeon, is to play the 
part of the nightingale, and to indicate every morning 
the precise moment when, as I am preparing to leave 
her adored arms, my mistress will kiss me on the neck 
and say in her sweet voice, exactly as in the balcony 
scene : ‘ It is not yet near day ; it was the night- 
ingale and not the lark ’ — that is to say, it isn’t eleven 
o’clock, the streets are muddy, don’t go, we are so com- 
fortable here. To make the imitation complete I shall try 
to procure a nurse to be placed at the disposal of my 
beloved ; and I hope that the almanac will be obliging 
enough to grant me from time to time a little ray of 
moonlight, when I scale my Juliet’s balcony. What do 
you say to my scheme, philosopher? ” 

“ It’s as pretty as can be,” said Colline ; “ but could 
you explain to me also the mystery of the superb enve- 
lope which makes you unrecognizable? Have you be- 
come wealthy? ” 

26 


402 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Rodolphe did not reply, but motioned to a waiter 
and carelessly tossed him a louis, saying : 

“Take your pay out of that ! ” 

Then he tapped his pocket, which began to sing. 

“ Have you a bell in your pocket, to ring like that? ” 

“ Only a few louis.” 

“Louis d’or?” said Colline in a voice choked by 
amazement : “ just show me how you do it.” 

Whereupon the friends separated, Colline to spread 
the story of Rodolphe’ s affluence and new love-affair ; 
Rodolphe to return home. 

This took place in the week following the second rup- 
ture of Rodolphe’s liaison with Mademoiselle Mimi. 
When he had broken with his mistress, the poet felt the 
need of a change of air and surroundings, and, accom- 
panied by his friend Marcel, he left the dark, furnished 
lodging-house, the proprietor of which saw him depart, 
as well as Marcel, with no great regret. Both of them, 
as we have already said, went in quest of other lodgings 
and hired two rooms in the same house and on the same 
floor. The room selected by Rodolphe was immeasur- 
ably more comfortable than any of those he had pre- 
viously occupied. It contained some furniture almost 
worthy of the name, especially a couch covered with red 
material in imitation of velvet — material which in no 
sense complied with the proverb : “ Do your duty, let 
come what come may.” 

There were also on the mantelpiece, two vases of 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


403 

flowered china, and between them an alabaster clock 
with hideous ornaments. Rodolphe put the vases in a 
closet, and when the landlord came to set the clock, 
which had stopped, he begged him to do nothing of the 
kind. 

“ I consent to leave the clock on the mantel,” he said, 
“ but simply as an object of art ; it points to midnight, 
that is a witching hour, let it stay there ! The day it 
points to five minutes past twelve, I move out. — A 
clock ! ” mused Rodolphe, who could never bring him- 
self to submit to the imperious tyranny of the dial, “ why, 
it’s an enemy in your own household who tells off your 
life implacably hour by hour, minute by minute, and says 
to you every moment of the day : ‘ There’s a part of 
your life gone ! ’ No, I could not sleep peacefully in a 
room where there was one of those instruments of tor- 
ture, in whose neighborhood reverie and freedom from 
care are impossible. — A clock whose hands reach as far 
as your bed and prick you in the morning when you are 
still buried in the sweet delights of the first awakening. 
A clock that shrieks at you : ‘ding, ding, ding ! It’s time 
for business, leave your delicious dream, tear yourself 
from the caresses of your visions — and sometimes of 
those of reality. Put on your hat and boots, it’s cold, it 
rains, be off about your business, it’s high time, ding, 
ding ! ' — It’s quite enough to have the almanac. — So let 
my clock remain paralyzed, if not — ” 

As he soliloquized thus, he examined his new abode, 


404 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


and was disturbed by the secret feeling of disquietude 
that almost always assails one upon taking possession of 
a new lodging. 

“ I have noticed,” he said to himself, “that the places 
we live in exert a mysterious influence on our thoughts and 
consequently on our actions. This room is as cold and 
silent as a tomb. If there is ever a spark of animation 
here, it must be brought from without ; and even then 
it will not last long, for bursts of laughter would die with- 
out an echo beneath this low ceiling, as cold and white 
as a snowy sky. Alas ! what will my life be within these 
four walls? ” 

A few days later, however, that gloomy chamber was 
filled with light and resounded with joyous shouts and 
laughter; the house-warming was in progress, and nu- 
merous bottles explained the gay humor of the guests. 
Rodolphe himself was infected by the contagious joviality 
of those about him. Sitting apart in a corner, with a 
young woman who had come there by chance and of 
whom he had taken possession, the poet was pouring 
flattery upon her with his lips and his hands. Toward 
the close of the festivity he obtained an appointment 
with her for the next day. 

“Well,” he said to himself when he was alone, “the 
party wasn’t so very bad, and it was a good send-off for 
my sojourn here.” 

The next day, at the appointed hour, Mademoiselle 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


405 


Juliet appeared. The evening was passed in arriving at 
an understanding. Juliet had learned of Rodolphe’s 
recent rupture with the blue-eyed damsel he had loved 
so well ; she knew that Rodolphe had taken her back 
after leaving her once, and she was afraid that she might 
be the victim of a second return of love. 

“ The point is, you see,” she said with a sweet little 
pout, “ that I haven’t the slightest desire to play an 
absurd part. I give you warning that I have a very 
high temper ; once mistress here,” — and she emphasized 
by a look the meaning she gave to the word, — “ I stay 
here and do not give up my place.” 

Rodolphe summoned all his eloquence to his aid to 
convince her that her fears were ill-founded, and, as the 
young woman was anxious to be convinced, they ended 
by coming to an understanding. But their understand- 
ing was at an end when the clock struck twelve, for 
Rodolphe wanted Juliet to stay and she said that she 
was going. 

“No,” she said, as he insisted. “Why are you in 
such a hurry ? we shall reach our destination all the 
same, unless you stop on the way ; I will come again to- 
morrow.” 

And she came every evening for a week, and went 
away when the clock struck twelve. 

The slow progress of the affair did not annoy Ro- 
dolphe overmuch. In love, or even in caprice, he was of 
that school of travellers who lengthen out a journey and 


406 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


make it picturesque. That little sentimental preface 
resulted in carrying Rodolphe farther at first than he 
intended to go. And Mademoiselle Juliet’s purpose in 
resorting to that stratagem doubtless was to lead him to 
that point where caprice, strengthened by the resistance 
offered to it, begins to resemble love. 

At each succeeding visit that she paid to Rodolphe, 
Juliet noticed a more pronounced tone of sincerity in 
what he said to her. When she was late in coming, he 
manifested a symptomatic impatience which enchanted 
the girl ; and he wrote her letters too, whose language 
gave her ground for hope that she would soon become 
his lawful mistress. 

When Marcel, who was his confidant, happened to 
glance at one of Rodolphe’s epistles, he said, laugh- 
ingly : 

“ Is that a trick of style, or do you really think what 
you say ? ” 

“Yes, I really do think it,” Rodolphe replied; “and 
I am a little surprised at myself ; but so it is. I was in 
a very melancholy frame of mind a week ago. That 
solitude and that silence, coming so suddenly upon the 
heels of the tempests of my former establishment, fright- 
ened me terribly, but Juliet suddenly appeared on the 
scene. I heard in my ears the fanfares of the spontane- 
ous gayety of twenty years. I had before me a fresh 
young face, eyes full of smiles, a mouth overflowing with 
kisses, and I allowed myself to be drawn gently on by 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


407 

the caprice which may perhaps lead rne to love. I love 
to love.” 

But Rodolphe was not long in discovering that it lay 
with him to bring that little romance to a conclusion ; 
and then it was that it occurred to him to copy from 
Shakespeare the stage-setting for the intrigue of Romeo 
and Juliet. His future mistress thought it an amusing 
idea and consented to do her part toward carrying out 
the jest. 

It was the evening fixed for the performance, on 
which Rodolphe fell in with Colline the philosopher, 
just as he had purchased the silken rope-ladder which 
he was to use to scale Juliet’s balcony. The dealer in 
birds to whom he had applied having no nightingale, 
Rodolphe substituted a pigeon, which sang every morn- 
ing at daybreak, so he was assured. 

As he returned home, Rodolphe reflected that an 
ascent by a rope-ladder was not a very simple matter, 
and that it would be a good plan to have a little rehearsal 
of the balcony scene, if he did not wish, in addition to 
the chances of a fall, to run the risk of making an absurd 
and bungling exhibition in the eyes of her who was to 
await his coming. Having fastened his ladder to two 
nails driven firmly into the wall, Rodolphe employed the 
two hours that remained in practising gymnastics ; and, 
after a countless number of attempts, he succeeded 
after a fashion in ascending ten or twelve rounds. 

“ It’s all right,” he said, “ I am sure of myself now, 


408 bohemian life 

and even if I should get stuck half-way up, love would 
give me wings.” 

Armed with his ladder and his pigeon cage, he re- 
paired to Juliet’s house, w r hich was near at hand. Her 
room was at the end of a small garden and actually 
boasted a sort of balcony. But the room was on the 
ground floor, and it was the easiest matter in the world 
to straddle the balcony. 

Rodolphe was thunderstruck when he saw the lay of 
the land, which utterly annihilated his poetic escalading 
project. 

“ Never mind,” he said to Juliet, “ we can perform the 
balcony scene all the same. Here’s a bird that will wake 
us to-morrow with his melodious note and will let us 
know the precise moment at which we must part from 
each other in despair.” And Rodolphe hung the cage 
in a corner of the room. 

The next morning, at five o’clock, the pigeon was 
prompt to the minute and filled the room with a pro- 
longed cooing which would have waked the two lovers if 
they had been asleep. 

“ Well,” said Juliet, “this is the time to go out on the 
balcony and exchange a despairing farewell. What do 
you think about it? ” 

The pigeon’s ahead of time,” said Rodolphe ; “ this is 
November and the sun doesn’t rise till noon.” 

“ Never mind,” said Juliet, “ I am going to get up.” 

“ The deuce ! what for ? ” 


ROMEO AND JULIET 


409 

“ My stomach is hollow, and I will not conceal the 
fact that I could eat a little something.” 

“ It is extraordinary how our feelings harmonize ; I 
too am atrociously hungry,” said Rodolphe, rising also 
and dressing in haste. 

Juliet had already lighted a fire and was looking to see 
if there was anything in her sideboard. Rodolphe as- 
sisted her in her search. 

“ Look,” said he, “ onions ! ” 

“ And bacon,” said Juliet. 

“And butter.” 

“And bread.” 

Alas ! that was all. 

During these investigations the heedless and optimistic 
pigeon was singing on his perch. 

Romeo looked at Juliet, Juliet looked at Romeo ; they 
both looked at the pigeon. 

They said nothing more. The fate of the pigeon- 
clock was decided ; even if he had appealed, it would 
have been time thrown away, hunger is such a cruel 
judge. 

Rodolphe had lighted some charcoal and was frying 
bacon in the sizzling butter ; he had a grave and solemn 
air. 

Juliet was picking onions in a melancholy attitude. 

The pigeon sang on ; it was his Willow Song. 

The song of the butter in the frying-pan echoed his 
lament. 


410 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Five minutes later the butter was still singing, but the 
pigeon, like the Templars , had ceased to sing. 

Romeo and Juliet had cooked their clock on the 
gridiron. 

“ He had a sweet voice,” said Juliet as they took their 
seats at the table. 

“He was very tender,” said Romeo, dissecting his 
alarm-clock, deliciously browned. 

The lovers glanced at each other and each surprised 
the other with a tear in his eye. 

Hypocrites ! it was the onions that made them weep ! 


XXII 

EPILOGUE OF THE LOVE AFFAIRS OF RODOLPHE AND 
MADEMOISELLE MIMI 

I 

During the days immediately following his definitive 
rupture with Mademoiselle Mimi, who had left him, as 
the reader will remember, to ride in Vicomte Paul’s 
carriage, Rodolphe the poet had tried to forget his grief 
by taking a new mistress, she who was a blonde, and for 
whose benefit we have seen him array himself in the 
costume of Romeo on a day of frivolity and paradox. 

But that liaison, which was on his part only a matter 
of spite and on hers only a matter of caprice, was certain 
not to last long ; the girl was, after all, only a foolish 
creature, a most accomplished performer of the chromatic 
scale of trickery; clever enough to notice cleverness 
in others and to make use of it on occasion, and with 
just heart enough to feel uncomfortable there when she 
had eaten too much. Add to all this, unbridled self- 
conceit and a ferocious coquetry which would have led 

(41 0 


412 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


her to prefer that her lover should break his leg rather 
than that she should have a ruffle less to her dress or a 
faded ribbon on her hat. An ordinary creature, of ques- 
tionable beauty, endowed by nature with every evil in- 
stinct, and yet most seductive in certain directions and 
at certain times. She was not slow to discover that 
Rodolphe had taken her for the sole purpose of helping 
him to forget the absent, and that on the contrary she 
made him regret her, for his former mistress had never 
spoken so loudly or been so alive in his heart. 

One day Juliet, his new mistress, was talking about her 
poet-lover with a medical student who was paying court 
to her. 

“ My dear child,” said the student, “ that fellow is 
using you as we use nitrate of silver to cauterize wounds ; 
he is trying to cauterize his own heart ; so you are very 
foolish to lose any sleep over it or to be faithful to him.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” cried the girl, with a burst of laughter, 
“do you really suppose I trouble myself about him?” 
And that same evening she gave the student convincing 
proof of the contrary. 

Thanks to the indiscretion of one of those officious 
friends who are never able to leave untried a new possi- 
bility of causing annoyance, Rodolphe had wind of the 
affair and used it as a pretext for breaking with his ad 
interim mistress. 

He then took refuge in absolute solitude, where all the 
black bats of ennui speedily built their nests, and he 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


413 


summoned work to his assistance, but in vain. Every 
evening, after perspiring as many drops of water as he 
had used drops of ink, he wrote a score of lines in 
which an old idea, as exhausted as the Wandering Jew, 
and shabbily dressed in rags borrowed from the old- 
clothes shops of literature, danced heavily on the tight 
rope of paradox. As he read the lines over, Rodolphe 
was as horrified as the man who sees nettles grow where 
he supposed he had sown roses. He tore up the sheet 
on which he had told those beads of idiocy, and 
trampled upon it in a rage. 

“ Alas ! ” he said, striking his breast where his heart 
was supposed to be, “ the chord is broken, I may as well 
be resigned to my fate.” And as a similar discovery had 
followed all his attempts at work for a long time, he was 
seized with one of those attacks of discouraged lassitude, 
which cause the staunchest pride to falter, and deaden 
the keenest intellect. Indeed, nothing can be more 
terrible than the solitary conflicts which sometimes 
take place between the stubborn artist and rebellious 
art ; nothing can be more touching than the bursts of 
passion alternating with invocations, supplicating and 
imperious by turns, addressed to the disdainful or fleet- 
ing Muse. 

The keenest human anguish, the deepest wounds that 
cut the heart to the quick, do not cause suffering that ap- 
proaches in intensity that which one feels in the hours of 
impatience and doubt so frequent in the lives of all those 


414 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


who devote themselves to the hazardous profession of 
imagination. 

These violent paroxysms were succeeded by periods of 
lamentable prostration; Rodolphe would then remain 
for hours as if petrified, in dazed immobility. With his 
elbows resting on his table, his eyes staring vacantly at 
the luminous space described by the lamp’s rays on the 
sheet of paper — the “battlefield” whereon his mind was 
conquered day after day and his pen disabled by pursuit 
of the intangible idea — he saw pass slowly by, like the 
figures in the magic chambers with which children are 
entertained, fantastic pictures forming a panorama of his 
past. First there were the toilsome days when every 
passing hour called him to the performance of some 
duty, the nights of study tete-a-tete with the Muse who 
embellished with her fairy art his lonely, patient poverty. 
And he recalled with longing the pride that once in- 
toxicated him when he had finished the task imposed 
upon him by his own will. “ Oh ! ” he would exclaim, 
“ there is nothing that can be compared with you, deli- 
cious fatigues of toil, that make the mattress of the dolce 
far niente seem so soft. Neither the gratification of self- 
esteem, nor the feverish excitement stifled behind the 
heavy curtains of mysterious alcoves, nothing, in fact, is 
equal to the tranquil, honest joy, the legitimate self-content 
which labor gives to the laborious as his first recompense.” 
And with his eyes still fixed upon the visions which con- 
tinued to place before him the scenes of bygone days, he 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


415 


climbed again the six flights leading to all the attics where 
his chequered existence had halted, and whither the Muse, 
his only love in those days, a loyal and persevering friend, 
had always accompanied him, living cheerfully in want, and 
never interrupting his song of hope. But lo, amid that 
regular and peaceful existence, a woman’s face suddenly 
appeared ; and when she saw her enter that abode where 
she had hitherto been sole queen and mistress, the poet’s 
Muse sadly rose and gave place to the newcomer, in 
whom she divined a rival. Rodolphe hesitated a moment 
between the Muse to whom his glance seemed to say, 
“ remain,” while a beguiling gesture addressed to the 
stranger said to her, “come.” Indeed, how could he 
repulse that fascinating creature, who came to him armed 
with all the seductiveness of beauty at its dawn ? Tiny 
mouth and red lips, speaking a bold but artless language, 
full of cajoling promises ; how refuse to take in his that 
small, white, blue -veined hand, which was held out to 
him, filled with caresses? How bid that blooming child 
of eighteen years begone — that child whose presence 
already filled the house with the sweet perfume of youth 
and gayety ? And then she sang the cavatina of tempta- 
tion so sweetly in her soft, melting voice ! With her 
bright, sparkling eyes she said so plainly : “ I am love ; ” 
with her lips whereon a kiss was ever waiting : “ I am 
pleasure;” and with her whole person: “ I am happi- 
ness,” that Rodolphe was enthralled. And after all, was 
not the young woman real, living poetry, did he not owe 


416 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


to her his freshest inspirations ? had she not often aroused 
within him enthusiastic impulses which carried him so far 
aloft in the ether of reverie that he lost sight of earthly 
things? If he had suffered much because of her, was 
not that suffering the expiation of the boundless happi- 
ness he had known through her? was it not the custom- 
ary revenge of human destiny which forbids unalloyed 
happiness as an impiety? If the law of Christianity for- 
gives those who have loved dearly, it is because they are 
certain to have suffered much, and earthly love becomes 
a divine passion only on condition that it purifies itself 
with tears. Just as one becomes intoxicated by breath- 
ing the odor of withered roses, so Rodolphe intoxicated 
himself by living again in memory that earlier life of his, 
when every day brought with it a new lament, a terrible 
drama or an amusing comedy. He passed through all 
the phases of his strange passion for the dear absent one, 
from their honeymoon down to the domestic storms which 
had occasioned their last rupture ; he recalled his former 
mistress’s whole repertory of wiles, he repeated all her 
bright sayings. He saw her dancing about him in their 
little home, humming her favorite ballad, Ma Mie Annette , 
and welcoming good and evil days alike with the same 
heedless gayety. And, at last, he reached a point where 
he said to himself that reason was always wrong in love. 
In very truth, what had he gained by the rupture? When 
he lived with Mimi she deceived him, it is true ; but, if 
he knew it, it was his own fault after all, because he took 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 417 

an infinite amount of trouble to find it out, because he 
passed his time on the watch for proofs, and because he 
himself sharpened the daggers which he buried in his 
heart. Moreover, was not Mimi clever enough to prove 
to him at times that he deceived himself? And then, 
too, with whom was she unfaithful to him? Generally 
with a shawl, a hat, with things and not with men. Had 
he found after his mistress’s departure the peace and 
tranquillity he had hoped to obtain by separating from 
her? Alas ! no. Formerly, at least, she was in the 
house. Then his grief could find a vent, he could pour 
out his feelings in insults, in protestations, he could show 
all that he suffered, and move to pity the woman who 
caused his suffering. And now his grief was solitary, his 
jealousy had become frenzy ; for formerly he could at 
least, when he was suspicious, prevent Mimi from going 
out, keep her at his side, in his custody ; and now he 
met her on the street, holding her new lover’s arm, and 
he had to turn aside to let her pass, happy of course, and 
on her way to some new pleasure. 

This wretched life lasted three or four months. Grad- 
ually he became calm once more. Marcel, who had 
taken a long journey to seek distraction for the loss of 
Musette, returned to Paris and took up his quarters once 
more with Rodolphe. They consoled each other. 

One day, as he was passing through the Luxembourg 
garden — it was a Sunday — Rodolphe met Mimi in a 

grand costume. She was going to a ball. She nodded 
27 


418 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


to him and he replied with a bow. The meeting struck 
him to the heart, but the emotion was less painful than 
usual. He walked some time longer in the Luxembourg, 
and then went home. When Marcel returned at night, 
he found him at work. 

“ Oho ! ” said Marcel, leaning over his shoulder, 
“ you’re working, are you? — poetry?” 

“Yes,” said Rodolphe joyfully. “I believe the little 
beast isn’t quite dead yet. In the four hours I have 
been sitting here I seem to have recovered the in- 
spiration of the old days; I met Mimi to-day.” 

“The deuce ! ” said Marcel uneasily ; “how do you 
stand with her? ” 

“ Don’t be afraid,” said Rodolphe, “ we only bowed ; 
it went no farther than that.” 

“ Really ? ” said Marcel. 

“ Really. It’s all over between us, I feel it ; but I 
can succeed in working again, I forgive her.” 

“ If it’s ended so completely as all that,” said Mar- 
cel, “why are you writing poetry to her? ” 

“Alas ! ” the poet replied, “ I take my poetry where 
I find it.” 

For a week he worked at his little poem. When it 
was finished he read it to Marcel, who declared that 
he was satisfied with it, and urged Rodolphe to utilize in 
another direction the vein that seemed to have returned 
to him. 

“For,” he observed, “it wasn’t worth while to leave 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 419 

Mimi, if you propose still to live with her ghost. As 
far as that goes,” he added with a smile, “ I should 
do better to preach to myself instead of preaching to 
others, for my heart is still full of Musette. However, 
perhaps we shall not always dote on creatures of the 
devil.” 

“ Alas ! ” replied Rodolphe, “ there is no need to bid 
youth begone.” 

“ True,” said Marcel, “ but there are days when I 
would like to be a respectable old man, a member of 
the Institute, decorated with several orders, and done 
forever with the Musettes of this world. Deuce take 
me if I would return to them ! And how about your- 
self,” added the artist with a laugh, “would you like to 
be sixty years old? ” 

“ To-day,” replied Rodolphe, “ I would prefer to have 
sixty francs.” 

A few days later, Mademoiselle Mimi, being in a cafe 
with young Vicomte Paul, opened a review in which the 
verses Rodolphe had written for her were printed. 

“Well, well ! ” she cried, laughing at first, “ my lover 
Rodolphe is saying bad things about me in the news- 
papers.” 

But when she had finished the poem, she was silent 
and thoughtful. Vicomte Paul, guessing that she was 
thinking of Rodolphe, tried to divert her mind. 

“I’ll buy you some earrings,” he said. 

“ Oh, yes ! ” said Mimi, “you have money ! ” 


420 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ And an Italian straw hat,” continued Vicomte Paul. 

“No,” said Mimi, “ if you want to please me, buy 
me this.” 

And she pointed to the pamphlet in which she had 
just read Rodolphe’s poem. 

“ No, I won’t do that,” said the viscount, in an offended 
tone. 

“ Very well,” retorted Mimi coldly. “ I’ll buy it 
myself with money that I earn myself. Indeed, I prefer 
not to buy it with your money.” 

Mimi returned to the florist who formerly employed 
her, and worked two days, until .she earned the amount 
necessary to purchase the magazine. She learned Ro- 
dolphe’s poetry by heart, and repeated it every day to 
her friends, in order to annoy Vicomte Paul. The 
verses were as follows : 

When I in quest of mistress fair was bent, in truth, 

We met one day, our steps by Chance’s favor led, 

My heart I gave to you, and with it all my youth, 

“ Do with them what you list,” such were the words I said. 

You exercised your will, ’twas harsh, my dear, alas ! 

Of my poor shattered youth you have the sad remains, 

And crushed my heart like atoms of too-fragile glass. 

While as a graveyard, lonely, drear, 

My chamber now, what’s left, contains 
Of him you lately held so dear. 

Between us now, nay, nay, — the happy dream is o’er, 

I’m but a wretched sprite, and you a phantom scant, 

And o’er our buried love that wakens nevermore 
Let’s sing, if you but wish it so, the parting chant. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


421 

But let us not attack too high a key, howe’er, 

For both, perhaps, could not control the faltering voice ; 

An air in simple minor key should be our choice ; 

I’ll take the deep-toned bass, and you soprano bear. 

Mi, re, mi, do, re, la. — No, sweet, let’s not try that ! 

My heart, e’en though its pulse all silent seems, once more, 

To hear your old-time air revived, would go pit-pat, 

That De Profundis would its vanished life restore. 

Do, mi, fa, sol, mi, do . — This taunting group evokes 
A two-step dance that made me very ill, I know, 

Wherein the fife with squeaking laugh the viol provokes 
That weeps its crystal notes beneath the busy bow. 

Sol, do, do, si, si, la . — Not that I must demand, 

For that we trilled in chorus just a year ago 

With merry German folks who sung their fatherland 
In Meudon’s joyous woods, in summer’s evening glow. 

Well ! no, we will not sing, let’s stop at once, Dearie; 

And that we neither think nor e’er recur to it, 

Let’s take a final glance, from hate and anger free, 

O’er our dead loves, but all in smiling, as seems fit. 

What happy hours we spent ensconced in your small room, 
Nor cared we for the hissing rain or shrieking wind ; 

And in your chair I sat in dull December’s gloom, 

While in the light of your fair eyes dreams filled my mind. 

The crackling coal was gay; and o’er the ashes bright, 

The kettle sang its merry tune in measured time, 

An orchestra befitting salamanders’ flight 

As there upon the hearth they danced to kettle’s chime. 

Or, when in lazy, chilly mood with reading tired, 

While you, fatigued, your drowsy eyelids closely drew, 

The burning glow of youthful love my senses fired, 

I kissed your hands and pledged my heart again to you. 


422 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Scarce could one cross the portal of our little room, 

Ere all the scent of love and joy was manifest 
That never left our room from morn till evening’s gloom, 

For pleasure clearly showed itself our constant guest. 

Then winter took its flight; and spring’s rays lightly crept 
One morning through the open sash and bade us rise, 

Away we sped, and o’er the green earth joyous leapt, 

And ran to greet the sun, with gladdened heart and eyes. 

The Friday ’twas in Holy Week, my mind retains, 

And thwarting nature’s rule, ’twould seem, a glorious day, 
From vale to hill, through forest dense and over plains, 

Lightly we ran, and happy, passed long hours away. 

Outworn we were at last by pleasure’s eager chase, 

When lo ! a natural couch we saw, disclosed by chance, 

The distant landscape lent its charm to that choice place, 

And there we sat and viewed the glorious heaven’s expanse. 

Each hand the other’s grasped, our shoulders closely set, 
Unconscious too, each with oppressive feeling stirred, 

We oped our lips, when they in natural union met, 

And so we kissed, nor broke the silence with a word. 

The waxen hyacinth and violet pure, close by, 

Their subtle odors blent and charmed the vernal air, 

And both of us saw, as we sat and looked toward the sky, 

God from His azure palace smiling on us there. 

“ Love then ! ” His glances seemed to say, “ for you I’ve made 
The way so soft, wherein you’ll march with timid feet, 

For you the yielding, velvet moss I’ve softly laid, 

Kiss then again ! nor fear my watchful glance to meet. 

“ Love then, each other love ! in breath of softest breeze, 

In limpid, babbling stream, in green woods newly-clad, 

In star and flower, and song-filled nests that deck the trees, 
For you My nature wakes its song in voices glad. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


423 


“ Love on, each other love ! and for My golden sun, 

My spring that wakes the earth whereon its blessings pour, 

If you are happy, then instead of prayer saintly done 
To voice your welling gratitude — why kiss once more.” 

A short month passed, the roses were in rarest bloom 
Within the little garden, offspring of our care, 

When I loved you the best, and all unknown my doom, 

Your love was harshly turned from me fore’er. 

And whither went it ? Here a part, some there, I think, 

Now one, then other hue extols by fits and starts, 

Your errant love in flight finds no enduring link, 

From gloomy knave of spades to brilliant knave of hearts 

But now I see you happy ; your capricious vein 
O’er court of amorous youth now sovereign sways ; 

And every step you take, you find beneath your train 
A bed bedecked with perfumed, laudatory lays. 

At out-door terpsichorean fetes your presence draws 
To you a sycophantic crowd of lovelorn swains, 

And just the rustling of your silken gown will cause 

The amorous pack to chant their complimentary strains. 

And choicely shod in shapely boot of supple skin 
That would have pinched the foot of Cinderella fair, 

Your tiny foot could barely be divined therein 

As round about you whirled to music’s stirring air. 

In bath anointed with the oil of idleness, 

Your hands, erstwhile so brown, gleam now, all brilliant white, 
An ivory tint, or rather, lily’s kissed by light caress 

Of moonbeam’s rays that flood the earth with argent light. 

Upon your fair and rounded arm a rich pearl gleams, 

In beauteous bracelet set, of Froment’s chaste design, 

Your well-shaped back an Oriental shawl beseems 
That graceful falls in many an undulating line. 


424 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Old Flemish lace and English point in beauty vie 
With Gothic guipure of a dull and creamy white, 

The master art so finely spun in days gone by, 

To give your toilette now a splendor passing bright. 

I much preferred you when in cotton gown attired, 

In muslin fair or simple organdie bedight, 

Attractive, fresh, with hat that never veil required, 

And boots of gray or black, and collar gleaming white. 

For though thy wealth of beauty makes thee wondrous fair, 

My vanished love it cannot call, or joy impart, 

And you are dead the more, and deeper buried there 

Beneath the silken shroud that stills your beating heart. 

When I essayed to write this epitaphial work, — 

But one long sigh for buried joys its lament bears, — 

I clothed myself in fitting black, like notary’s clerk, 

Without the gold-rimmed glass and pleated frill he wears. 

About my pen the emblematic crape was w’ound, 

The sheet that bore my verse was edged with border black, — 
Meet frame for lines in which exhumed is only found 
The last remembrance of my passion’s last attack. 

My poem done, as in some gulf, therein I fling 
My heart, and with the mirth of undertaker’s man 
Who might entomb his own poor corpse, frail, mortal thing, 

I laughed with ghoulish glee as only madman can. 

But oh ! what bitter mock’ry in that laughter vain * 

For while I wrote, my pen but trembling letters traced, 

And when I smiled, my burning tears that fell like rain 
Each word the paper bore, alas ! had soon effaced. 

II 

It was the 24th of December, and on that evening the 
Latin Quarter wore an aspect peculiar to the season. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


425 

From four o’clock in the afternoon, the agencies of the 
Mont-de-Pi£t6, the shops of the dealers in old clothes 
and old books were filled to overflowing with a noisy 
crowd that took by assault during the evening the 
sausage-shops, cook-shops and corner groceries. The 
clerks, though they had had a hundred arms like Bria- 
reus, would have been unequal to the task of waiting 
upon the customers who helped themselves to what they 
wanted. People stood in line at the bakers’ doors as 
in times of famine. The wine-dealers disposed of the 
product of three harvests, and a practised statistician 
would have had difficulty in computing the number of 
hams and sausages sold by the famous Borel on Rue 
Dauphine. In that one evening Pere Cretaine, called 
Petit-Pain , exhausted eighteen editions of his buttered 
cakes. Throughout the night there was a great uproar 
in the furnished lodging-houses, whose windows blazed 
with light, and the quarter was filled with a holiday 
atmosphere. 

The time-honored Christmas Eve festival was being 
celebrated. 

That evening, about ten o’clock, Marcel and Rodolphe 
were returning to their rooms in melancholy mood. As 
they walked up Rue Dauphine they noticed a great 
crowd in the shop of a provision dealer, and they stopped 
for a moment at the window, tantalized by the spec- 
tacle of savory products of the kitchen ; the two 
Bohemians in their rapt contemplation resembled the 


426 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


character in a Spanish novel who made hams grow thin 
simply by looking at them. 

“That is what is called a truffled turkey,” said Marcel, 
pointing to a magnificent fowl, through whose trans- 
parent pink epidermis could be seen the Perigord 
tubercles with which it was stuffed. “ I have seen im- 
pious people eat such a bird without falling on their knees 
before it,” added the painter with a roasting glance at 
the turkey. 

“ What do you think of that leg of salt-marsh mutton ? ” 
said Rodolphe. “ What a beautiful color it is ! you 
would say it was fresh from that meat-stall in one of 
Jordaens’s pictures. Mutton fed on salt-hay is the favorite 
dish of the gods and of my godmother, Madame Chan- 
delier.” 

“Just look at those fish,” rejoined Marcel, pointing 
to a dish of trout, “they are the finest swimmers of 
the whole fish tribe. The little creatures, who put on 
no airs at all, could if they chose earn a large income 
by giving exhibitions of feats of strength ; just imagine 
that they swim up against the current of a perpendic- 
ular mountain stream, as readily as we would accept 
an invitation or two to supper. I have come near eat- 
ing them.” 

“ And those great golden fruits over there, with leaves 
that resemble a stand of barbarian sabres; those are 
called pineapples, they are the pippins of the tropics.” 

“ So far as I am concerned,” said Marcel, “ the fruit 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


427 


I prefer is that joint of beef, or that large ham, or yonder 
little fellow sheathed in transparent, amber-colored 
jelly.” 

“ You are right,” rejoined Rodolphe ; “ the ham is the 
friend of man when he has any. However, I would not 
spurn that pheasant.” 

“ I should think not, it’s a dish for crowned heads.” 

As they walked on they met merry processions on 
their way to celebrate the feast of Momus, Bacchus, 
Comus and all the other gluttonous divinities in us, and 
they asked each other who this Seigneur Gamache might 
be whose wedding every one was celebrating with such 
an abundant supply of food. 

Marcel was the first to remember the date and the 
festival. 

“This is Christmas Eve,” he said. 

“Do you remember our Christmas Eve last year?” 
asked Rodolphe. 

“Yes, at Momus ,” replied Marcel. “Barbemuche 
paid for it. I never imagined that a woman as delicate as 
Phemie could hold so much sausage.” 

“ What a pity that Momus has closed his doors on us,” 
said Rodolphe. 

“ Alas ! ” rejoined Marcel, “ the calendars succeed one 
another, but no two are alike.” 

“Wouldn’t you like to celebrate Christmas Eve? ” in- 
quired Rodolphe. 

“ With whom and with what?” asked the painter. 


428 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ With me, of course.” 

“ And the money? ” 

“Just wait a moment,” said Rodolphe; “I will go 
into yonder caf£ where there are some people I know 
who play for high stakes. I will borrow a few sesterces 
from some favorite of chance and bring back the where- 
withal to wash down a sardine or some pettitoes.” 

“ Go,” said Marcel, “I am as hungry as a dog. I 
will wait for you here.” 

Rodolphe entered the caf£, where there were some 
acquaintances of his. A gentleman who had just won 
three hundred francs in ten hands of bouillotte took 
great pleasure in lending the poet a forty-sou piece, 
which he offered him wrapped in the ill-humor caused 
by the gambling fever. At any other time and else- 
where than about a green cloth, he would probably have 
lent him forty francs. 

“Well?” said Marcel inquiringly, as Rodolphe joined 
him. 

“Here are the receipts,” said the poet, showing him 
the money. 

“A crust and a drop,” said Marcel. 

But even with that modest sum they succeeded in 
obtaining bread and wine, sausage, tobacco, light and 
firewood. 

They returned to the lodging-house in which they 
occupied separate rooms. Marcel’s, which he used as a 
studio, being the larger, was selected for the banquet 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


429 

hall, and the friends made preparations there for their 
private feast. 

But, at the little table at which they sat, beside the 
hearth on which a few damp pieces of wretched drift- 
wood burned without flame and without heat, the ghost 
of the vanished past, a melancholy guest, took his seat 
with them. 

For at least an hour they sat silent and lost in 
thought, both engrossed, doubtless, by the same thought 
and struggling to conceal it. Marcel was the first to 
break the silence. 

“ Come, come,” he said to Rodolphe, “ this isn’t 
what we looked forward to.” 

“What do you mean?” said Rodolphe. 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu ! ” rejoined Marcel, “ don’t pretend 
with me now ! You are thinking of what we must for- 
get, and so am I, parbleu ! I don’t deny it.” 

“Well, even so ” 

“This must be the last time. To the devil with 
memories that make the wine* taste bad and make us 
sad when the whole world is enjoying itself ! ” cried 
Marcel, alluding to the merry shouts that came from the 
rooms near their own. “ Come, let us think of some- 
thing else, and let this be the last time.” 

“That’s what we always say, and yet — ” said Ro- 
dolphe, relapsing into his fit of musing. 

“And yet we are forever going back to it again,” 
rejoined Marcel. “ That is because, instead of striving 


43 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


honestly to forget, we make of the most futile things 
pretexts for recalling the past ; above all things, it is be- 
cause we persist in living in the same surroundings in 
which the creatures lived who tormented us so long. 
We are the slaves of a habit rather than of a passion. 
This slavery is what we must put an end to, or we shall 
wear ourselves out in ridiculous and disgraceful captiv- 
ity. The past is past, and we must break the bonds 
that still connect us with it ; the time has come to go 
forward without looking back ; we have had our day of 
youth, heedlessness, and paradox. All that is very fine, 
it would make a pretty novel ; but this comedy of amor- 
ous nonsense, this squandering of days and weeks with 
the lavishness of people who think they have an eternity 
to throw away — all this must come to an end. Unless 
we choose to justify the contempt that people feel for 
us, and to despise ourselves, it is not possible for us to 
continue to live on the edge of society, almost on the 
edge of life. For is this really life that we are leading? 
and this independence, this moral freedom of which we 
boast so loudly — are they not very slight advantages? 
True liberty is the power to do without the assistance 
of others and to exist by ourselves ; have we reached 
that point? No! the first scamp that comes along, 
whose name we wouldn’t bear for five minutes, has his 
revenge for our mockery, and becomes our lord and 
master from the day we borrow a hundred sous of him, 
which he doesn’t lend us until he has made us expend 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


431 


more than a hundred crowns’ worth of ruses or of humility. 
For my part I have had enough of it. Poetry does not 
consist simply in irregularity of life, in improvised 
flashes of happiness, in love-affairs which last while a 
candle burns, in rebellion, more or less out of the beaten 
track, against the prejudices which will always reign over 
society ; a dynasty is more easily overthrown than a cus- 
tom, no matter how absurd a custom it may be. To 
wear a summer coat in December is not enough to give 
a man talent ; one may be a real poet or artist, even 
though he does keep his feet warm and eat his three 
meals a day. Whatever you may say or do, if you want 
to get anywhere, you must always travel by way of the 
commonplace. This harangue may astonish you, Ro- 
dolphe, my friend ; you will say that I am shattering my 
idols, you will call me corrupted, but what I have said to 
you is none the less the expression of my sincere pur- 
pose. A gradual and salutary metamorphosis has taken 
place in me, without my knowledge ; common sense has 
found its way into my mind, by violence, if you choose, 
and perhaps against my will ; but it is there at all events, 
and it has proved to me that I was on a bad road, and 
that it would be both absurd and dangerous to persevere 
in it. After all, what will happen if we continue this 
monotonous, purposeless vagabond life? We shall ap- 
proach our thirtieth year unknown, isolated, disgusted 
with ourselves and everything else, overflowing with envy 
of all those whom we see reach their goal, whatever it 


43 2 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


may be, compelled, in order to live, to resort to the 
shameful expedients of sycophancy; — do not imagine 
that I am drawing a fanciful picture for the express pur- 
pose of terrifying you. I do not make a business of 
looking at the dark side of the future, but, on the other 
hand, I do not see only its rose-colored side ; I look at 
it fairly. Thus far the life we have led has been forced 
upon us ; we have had the excuse of necessity. Hence- 
forth we shall have no excuse ; and if we do not live as 
other people do, it will be by our own choice, for the 
obstacles we have had to struggle against no longer 
exist."’ 

“ What’s that?” said Rodolphe, “what are you driv- 
ing at ? What called forth this sermon and what’s the 
object of it ? ” 

“ You understand me perfectly,” said Marcel in the 
same serious tone ; “a moment since, I saw that you, 
like myself, were assailed by memories that made you 
sigh for the days that are past ; you were thinking of 
Mimi, as I was thinking of Musette ; you would have 
liked, as I would, to have your mistress beside you. 
Very good ; I say that neither of us ought to think any 
more of those creatures; that we were not made and 
brought into the world for the sole purpose of sacrificing 
ourselves to those commonplace Manons, and that the 
Chevalier Desgrieux, who is so handsome, so poetic, so 
true to life, is saved from absurdity only by his youth 
and by the illusions he was able to retain. At twenty 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


433 


years of age he can follow his mistress to the Antilles 
without ceasing to be interesting ; but at twenty-five he 
would have turned Manon out of doors, and he would 
have been quite right. It’s of no use to talk, we 
are old, you see, my dear fellow ; we have lived too 
much and too fast; our hearts are cracked, and give 
forth none but false notes ; one cannot be in love for 
three years with a Musette or a Mimi with impunity. 
For my part, I am done with it ; and, as I propose to 
effect an absolute divorce between myself and her mem- 
ory, I am going to throw into the fire a few small arti- 
cles which she left with me on her various visits, and 
which compel me to think of her when I happen upon 
them.” 

Marcel left his seat and took from the drawer Of a 
commode a small pasteboard box containing his souven- 
irs of Musette — a withered bouquet, a belt, a bit of rib- 
bon and some letters. 

“Come, follow my example, Rodolphe, my friend,” 
he said. 

“Very well, so be it!” cried Rodolphe, with an 
effort, “you are right. I too propose to have done 
with that girl with the white hands.” 

Springing suddenly to his feet, he went to his room, 
and returned with a small package containing souvenirs 
of Mimi, of almost the same nature as those of which 
Marcel was silently making an inventory. 

“This happens opportunely,” muttered the painter. 

28 


434 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ These gewgaws will serve to kindle the fire, which is 
going out.” 

“ Upon my word,” said Rodolphe, “the temperature 
here is well adapted to the cultivation of white bears.” 

“ Come,” said Marcel, “ let us have a burning duet. 
Look, Musette’s prose flares up like blazing punch ; she 
was very fond of punch. Come, friend Rodolphe, atten- 
tion ! ” 

For some time they alternately threw the relics of their 
past affections into the fire, which blazed brightly and 
noisily. 

“Poor Musette ! ” said Marcel, as he glanced at the 
last thing that remained in his hands. 

It was a little withered bouquet, made of wild flow- 
ers. 

“ Poor Musette ! she was very pretty all the same, and 
she loved me dearly, didn’t she, little nosegay? her heart 
told you so the day you were at her belt. Poor little 
nosegay, you look as if you would ask for mercy ; I will 
spare you, but only on condition that you will never 
speak to me again of her, never ! never ! ” 

He took advantage of a moment when he thought 
Rodolphe was not looking, to slip the bouquet into his 
breast. 

“ After all I can’t help it. I am cheating,” thought 
the painter. 

Glancing furtively at Rodolphe, he saw him, as he 
arrived at the end of his auto-da-fe, slyly slip into his 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


435 

pocket, after bestowing a fond kiss upon it, a little night- 
cap that had belonged to Mimi. 

“ Well, he’s as cowardly as I am,” muttered Marcel. 

Just as Rodolphe was about to go back to his own 
room to go to bed, there were two light taps at Marcel’s 
door. 

“ Who the devil can it be at this time of night? ” said 
the painter, going to open the door. 

A cry of amazement escaped him when the door was 
open. 

It was Mimi. 

As the room was very dark Rodolphe did not recognize 
his mistress at first ; he simply saw that it was a woman, 
and, supposing that it was some passing fancy of his 
friend, discreetly prepared to retire. 

“ I disturb you,” said Mimi, still in the doorway. 

At that voice Rodolphe fell back upon his chair as if 
struck by lightning. 

“ Good- evening,” said Mimi, walking up to him and 
pressing his hand, which he mechanically allowed her to 
take. 

“ What the devil brings you here,” Marcel asked her, 
“and at this hour? ” 

“ I am very cold,” Mimi replied, shivering from head 
to foot ; “ I saw a light in your room as I walked along 
the street, and so I came up, although it is very late.” 

She trembled still ; her voice had a crystalline reso- 
nance that rang in Rodolphe’ s heart like a funeral knell, 


4 3 6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


and filled it with vague terror ; he looked stealthily at 
her, and examined her more closely. It was not Mimi, 
it was her ghost. 

Marcel gave her a chair by the fireplace. 

Mimi smiled as she saw the bright flame dancing 
merrily on the hearth. 

“That is very nice,” she said, holding out her poor 
purple hands to the fire. “ By the way, Monsieur Marcel, 
you don’t know why I have come here, do you? ” 

“ Faith, no, I don’t,” was the reply. 

“ Well,” Mimi continued, “ I came simply to ask you 
if you couldn’t get me a room in your house. I have 
just been turned out of my furnished lodgings because I 
owe a month’s rent, and I don’t know where to go.” 

“The devil,” said Marcel, shaking his head, “we’re 
not in very good odor with our landlord, and our rec- 
ommendation wouldn’t amount to much, my poor child.” 

“What am I to do then?” said Mimi; “it’s a fact 
that I don’t know where to go.” 

“Oho ! ” said Marcel, “then you’re no longer a vis- 
countess?” 

“ Ah ! mon Dieu ! no, not at all.” 

“Since w T hen, pray? ” 

“ Not for two months.” 

“I suppose you played tricks on the young viscount ? ” 

“No,” she said, with a stealthy glance at Rodolphe, 
who had stationed himself in the darkest corner of the 
room, “ the viscount made a scene on account of some 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


437 


poetry someone wrote about me. We had a dispute and 
I told him he could go to the devil ; he’s a skinflint.” 

“ He must have supplied your wardrobe pretty well, 
however, judging from what I saw the day I met 
you.” 

“ Well,” said Mimi, “ just fancy ! he took it all away 
from me when I left him, and I have been told that he 
raffled all my effects at a wretched table d’hote, where he 
used to take me to dine. And yet the fellow is rich, but 
with all his money he’s as miserly as economical 
logs, and as stupid as a goose ; he didn’t want me to 
drink straight wine and made me go without meat on 
Fridays. Would you believe that he insisted on my 
wearing black cotton stockings because they don’t soil as 
easily as white ! did any one ever hear of such a thing? 
He bored me to death, I tell you, I can fairly say that I 
had my share of purgatory with him.” 

“Does he know of your present position?” Marcel 
asked. 

“ I haven’t seen him since, and I don’t want to see 
him,” replied Mimi; “he makes me seasick when I 
think of him ! I would rather starve to death than ask 
him for a sou.” 

“ But you haven’t been alone ever since you left him ? ” 
continued Marcel. 

“I assure you that I have, Monsieur Marcel,” cried 
Mimi eagerly : “ I have worked for my living ; but as 
the florist’s business was not very good, I have taken up 


43 8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


something else : I pose for painters. If you have any 
employment for me — ” she added laughingly. 

As she noticed an instinctive movement on the part 
of Rodolphe, from whom she had not removed her eyes 
while she was talking to his friend, Mimi continued : 

“ But I pose only for the head and hands. I have a 
great deal to do, and there’s money owing me in two or 
three places ; I shall receive it in two days and I want 
to find a place to sleep just from now till then. When 
I have some money I shall go back to my old lodgings. 
Ah ! ” she said, glancing at the table which still bore the 
elements of the modest repast which the friends had 
hardly touched, “ you are going to have supper? ” 

“No,” said Marcel, “we are not hungry.” 

“ You are very lucky,” said Mimi ingenuously. 

At that remark Rodolphe had a horrible feeling of 
oppression at his heart. He made Marcel a sign which 
he understood. 

“At all events, Mimi,” said the artist, “as long as you 
are here, you shall take potluck with us. Rodolphe and 
I had intended to have a Christmas Eve supper, and 
then — faith, we thought of something else.” 

“ Then I came in good time,” said Mimi, with an 
almost famished glare at the table on which the food 
was. “ I haven’t dined, my dear,” she whispered to 
the artist, too low to be overheard by Rodolphe, who 
was biting his handkerchief to avoid bursting into 
sobs. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


439 

“ Come here, Rodolphe,” said Marcel, “ we will all 
have supper together.” 

“ No,” said the poet, remaining in his corner. 

“ Has it made you angry to have me come here, Ro- 
dolphe?” said Mimi gently; “ where do you want me 
to go? ” 

“No, Mimi,” was his reply, “but it saddens me to 
see you in this condition.” 

“ It is my own fault, Rodolphe ; I don’t complain ; 
what is past is past ; think no more about it than I do. 
Can’t you be my friend, just because you used to be 
something else? of course you can, can’t you? Well, 
then, don’t make wry faces at me, but come and sit 
down at the table with us.” 

She rose to go and take his hand, but she was so weak 
that she could not walk and fell back upon her chair. 

“The heat makes me dizzy,” she said, “I can’t stand 
up.” 

“Come,” said Marcel to Rodolphe, “come and keep 
us company.” 

The poet went to the table and began to eat with 
them. Mimi was very lively. 

When the frugal supper was at an end, Marcel said to 
Mimi : 

“ My dear child, it isn’t possible for us to get a room 
in the house for you.” 

“Then I must go,” she said, trying to rise. 

“Why no ! why no ! ” cried Marcel, “ I have thought 


440 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


of another way of arranging matters ; you shall stay in 
my room, and I’ll go and sleep with Rodolphe.” 

“ That will be a nuisance to you, I know,” said Mimi, 
“but it won’t last long, only two days.” 

“ In that way it won’t put us out at all,” replied Mar- 
cel ; “ so it’s understood that you are at home here, and 
that we are going to sleep in Rodolphe’s room. Good- 
night, Mimi, pleasant dreams.” 

“Thanks,” she said, giving her hand to Marcel and 
Rodolphe, who thereupon walked away. 

“Do you want to lock yourself in?” asked Marcel, 
when he was at the door. 

“Why should I?” she answered, glancing at Ro- 
dolphe, “I am not afraid ! ” 

When the two friends were in Rodolphe’s room, which 
was on the same floor, Marcel suddenly said : 

“Well, what are you going to do now?” 

“ Why, I don’t know,” faltered Rodolphe. 

“ Nonsense, no trifling, go back to Mimi ! if you do 
it, I predict that you will take up with each other again 
to-morrow.” 

“ If it were Musette who had come back, what would 
you do?” queried Rodolphe. 

“ If Musette were in the next room,” replied Marcel, 
“ I tell you frankly that I think I should have ceased to 
be in this one a quarter of an hour ago.” 

“Well, I will be braver than you,” said Rodolphe, “I 
will stay here.” 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


441 


“ Parblea ! we shall see,” said Marcel, who was 
already in bed : “ are you coming to bed? ” 

“ Why yes, to be sure,” Rodolphe replied. 

But Marcel awoke in the middle of the night and 
found that Rodolphe had left him. 

In the morning he took the precaution to knock at 
the door of Mimi’s room. 

“Come in,” she said; and when she saw who it was, 
she motioned to him to speak low and not awaken Ro- 
dolphe, who was still asleep. He was sitting in a chair 
which he had moved to the bedside, and his head was 
beside Mimi’s on the pillow. 

“Is that the way you passed the night?” inquired 
Marcel, greatly surprised. 

“Yes,” replied the young woman. 

Rodolphe suddenly woke up, and, after kissing Mimi, 
offered his hand to Marcel, who seemed sorely puzzled. 

“I am going out to find some money to buy break- 
fast,” he said to the painter; “you must keep Mimi 
company.” 

“ Well,” Marcel asked the young woman when they 
were alone, “what happened last night? ” 

“Something very sad,” said Mimi, “Rodolphe still 
loves me.” 

“ I am well aware of it.” 

“ Yes, you tried to keep him away from me ; I don’t 
blame you for it, Marcel, you were right ; I did the poor 
boy a deal of harm.” 


442 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“And how about you,” queried Marcel; “do you 
still love him? ” 

“Ah! do I love him ! ” she said, clasping her hands, 
“ that is just what torments me. I am very much changed, 
my dear friend, and it has taken very little time to 
change me.” 

“Very well, as he loves you and you love him and you 
can’t get along without each other, come together again 
and try to stay together for good and all.” 

“ It is impossible,” said Mimi. 

“Why so?” asked Marcel, “it certainly would be 
more sensible for you to separate ; but you would have 
to be a thousand leagues apart in order not to see each 
other.” 

“ Before long, I shall be farther away than that.” 

“What do you mean by that? ” 

“ Don’t mention it to Rodolphe, he would take it too 
much to heart, but I am going away forever.” 

“ Going where, pray? ” 

“Look at this, my dear Marcel,” said Mimi, sobbing; 
“ Look.” She raised the sheet a little and showed the 
artist her neck and shoulders and arms. 

“ Great God ! ” cried Marcel sorrowfully, “ poor 
girl ! ” 

“Am I not right, my friend, shall I not die soon? ” 

“ But how did you come to be like that in so short a 
time?” 

“Oh ! it’s not surprising, with the life I have led for 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


443 


two months past : the nights passed in weeping and the 
days in unheated studios, and with it all, wretched food 
and unhappiness. And you don’t know all : I tried to 
poison myself with Javel water : my life was saved, but 
not for long, you see.. Indeed I have never been well; 
but, it’s my own fault ; if I had stayed quietly with Ro- 
dolphe I shouldn’t have come to this. Poor fellow ! here 
I have fallen back on his hands, but it won’t be for 
long ; the last dress he will give me will be all white, my 
poor Marcel, and I shall be buried in it. Ah ! if you 
knew how I suffer to know that I am going to die ! 
Rodolphe knows that I am sick ; he sat for more than 
an hour last night without speaking, when he saw how 
thin my arms and shoulders were ; he did not recognize 
his Mimi, alas ! — even my mirror doesn’t know me now. 
Never mind, I was pretty once, and he loved me dearly. 
Oh! mon Dieu!” she cried, hiding her face in 
Marcel’s hands, “ my poor friend, I am going to leave 
you and Rodolphe too. Oh ! mon Dieu / ” and her 
sobs choked her. 

“ Nonsense, Mimi,” said Marcel, “ don’t despair, you 
will get well ; you simply need perfect quiet and the best 
of care.” 

“ Oh ! no,” said Mimi, “it’s all over, I can feel it. I 
haven’t any strength, and when I came here last night it 
took me more than an hour to come upstairs. If I had 
found a woman here, I would simply have gone down by 
way of the window. Of course he was free, as we were 


444 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


no longer together; but you see, Marcel, I was very 
sure that he still loved me. That,” she said, bursting into 
tears, “ that is why I would like not to die right away : 
but it’s all over. Think, Marcel, what a kind heart the 
poor fellow must have to take me in after all I have done 
to him. Ah ! the good Lord isn’t fair, not to leave me 
just time enough to make Rodolphe forget the sorrow I 
have caused him. He doesn’t suspect the state I am in. 
I wasn’t willing that he should lie beside me, you see, 
for it seems to me that I already have earth-worms after 
my body. We passed the night crying and talking about 
old times. Ah ! how sad it is, my friend, to see behind 
you the happiness you once passed by without seeing it ! 
I have a scorching fire in my chest ; and when I move my 
limbs it seems as if they would break. — Just give me my 
dress,” she said to Marcel, “I am going to consult the 
cards to see if Rodolphe will bring back any money. I 
would like to have one good breakfast with you, as in the 
old days ; it wouldn’t do me any harm. God can’t make 
me any sicker than I am. Look,” she said, pointing to 
the pack of cards she had cut, “ it’s a spade. That’s the 
color of death. And there’s a club,” she added more 
cheerfully. “Yes, we shall have some money.” 

Marcel did not know what to say in face of the lucid 
raving of the poor creature, who had, as she said, the 
worms of the tomb after her ! 

An hour later, Rodolphe returned. He was ac- 
companied by Schaunard and Gustave Colline. The 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


445 

musician wore a thin summer coat. He had sold his 
thick clothes in order to lend Rodolphe money, when he 
learned that Mimi was ill. Colline, for his part, had 
been selling some books. If they had asked him to sell 
an arm or a leg he would have consented to do it rather 
than dispose of any of his dear books. But Schaunard 
had reminded him that they could make no use of his 
arm or his leg. 

Mimi strove hard to welcome her old friends cheerfully. 

“ I am not wicked any more,” she said, “ and Rodolphe 
has forgiven me. If he chooses to keep me with nim 
I’ll wear wooden shoes and a cap ; it’s all one to me. 
Silk certainly isn’t good for my health,” she added with a 
ghastly smile. 

At Marcel’s suggestion, Rodolphe sent for a friend of 
his who had just taken his degree in medicine. It was the 
same man who had attended little Francine. When he 
arrived, they left him alone with Mimi. 

Rodolphe, who had previously been warned by Marcel, 
was aware of his mistress’s dangerous condition. When 
the doctor had examined Mimi, he said to Rodolphe : 

“ You cannot keep her. Unless a miracle happens, 
she is lost. We must send her to the hospital. I will 
give you a letter to an intern whom I know at the hos- 
pital of La Piti£ ; he will take good care of her. If she 
lives till spring, perhaps we can pull her through ; but if 
she stays here, she won’t be alive a week from now.” 

“I shall never dare suggest it to her,” said Rodolphe. 


44-6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“I have already done so,” said the doctor, “and she 
consents. To-morrow I will send you the card of admis- 
sion to La Piti£.” 

“ My dear,” Mimi said to Rodolphe, “ the doctor is 
right, you couldn’t take care of me here. At the hos- 
pital they will cure me perhaps ; you must take me there. 
Ah ! I long so to live now, you see, that I would consent 
to pass the rest of my life with one hand in the fire and 
the other in yours. Besides, you will come to see me. 
You mustn’t be unhappy; I shall be well taken care of, 
that young man told me so. They give you chicken at 
the hospital, and they have a fire. While I am getting 
well, you will work and earn money, and when I am cured 
I will come back and live with you. I am very hopeful 
now. I will come back to you as pretty as I used to be. 
I was sick once long ago, before I knew you, and they 
saved me. And yet I wasn’t happy in those days, and I 
would have liked to die. Now that I have you again, and 
we can be happy together, they will save me, for I’ll fight 
hard against the disease. I will drink all the vile things 
they give me, and if death gets me it will be by force. 
Give me the mirror, it seems to me that I have some 
color. Yes,” she said, looking at herself in the glass, 
“ my bright color is coming back already ; and my hands, 
they are still very pretty, you see. Kiss them once 
more, it won’t be the last time, my poor dear,” she 
said, throwing her arms about Rodolphe’s neck and 
covering his face with her flowing hair. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


447 

She insisted that her friends the Bohemians should re- 
main and pass the evening with her before she went to 
the hospital. “Make me laugh,” she said, “gayety is 
health to me. That croaker of a viscount was what 
made me sick. Fancy, he wanted to teach me to spell ! 
What do you suppose I care for spelling ? And his 
friends, such a lot ! a genuine barnyard, where the vis- 
count was the peacock. He marked his linen himself. 
If he ever marries, I’m sure he’ll be the one to have the 
children.” 

Nothing more heartrending can be imagined than the 
unfortunate girl’s quasi-posthumous cheerfulness. All 
the Bohemians struggled manfully to restrain their tears 
and carry on the conversation in the jesting strain 
adopted by the poor child, for whom destiny was weav- 
ing so rapidly the material for her last garment. 

The next morning Rodolphe received the card of ad- 
mission to the hospital. Mimi could not stand upon 
her legs ; she had to be carried down to the carriage. 
On the way to the hospital she suffered terribly from 
the jolting of the vehicle. Coquetry, the last thing to 
die in a woman, survived through all her suffering ; two 
or three times she asked to have the carriage stopped in 
front of milliners’ shops, so that she might look at the 
window displays. 

When she entered the ward designated by the card, 
Mimi’s heart sank ; something told her that her life 
would end within those leprous, desolate walls. She 


44-8 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


exerted all the strength of will she possessed to conceal 
the painful impression that had sent a chill through her 
whole being. 

When she was in bed, she kissed Rodolphe for the 
last time and said adieu to him, urging him to come and 
see her on the following Sunday, which was visitors’ 
day. 

“ It doesn’t smell nice here,” she said ; “ bring me 
some flowers, some violets ; there still are some.” 

"I will,” said Rodolphe, “ adieu till Sunday.” 

He drew the bed-curtains about her. As she heard 
her lover’s receding footsteps on the floor, Mimi was 
suddenly seized with a paroxysm of something like delir- 
ium. She threw aside the curtains and, leaning out of 
bed, cried in a voice broken by tears : 

“ Rodolphe, take me away ! I want to go away ! ” 

The nun in attendance came running in at the outcry, 
and tried to soothe her. 

“ Oh ! I shall die here,” said Mimi. 

On Sunday morning — the day he was to go and see 
Mimi — Rodolphe remembered that he had promised her 
some violets. With the superstition of a poet and a 
lover, he went on foot, in terrible weather, to look for the 
flowers his mistress craved, in the woods of Aulnay and 
Fontenay, where he had been so many times with her. 
The landscape that was so bright and joyous in the sun- 
shine of the fine days of June and August, was cold and 
depressing. For two hours he hunted among the snow- 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


449 


covered thickets, raised the bushes and heather with a little 
stick and at last found a few poor blossoms in that por- 
tion of the woods that borders the pond of Plessis, a 
favorite haunt of theirs when they went into the coun- 
try. 

As he walked through the village of Chatillon on his 
way back to Paris, Rodolphe met, on the square in front 
of the Church, a baptismal procession, in which he rec- 
ognized one of his friends, who was acting as sponsor, 
with a singer from the Op£ra. 

“What the devil are you doing here ? ” asked the 
friend, greatly surprised to see Rodolphe in those parts. 

The poet told him what had happened. 

The young man, who had known Mimi, was deeply 
moved by the tale ; he felt in his pocket and took out 
a bag of baptismal bonbons, which he handed to Ro- 
dolphe. 

“ Poor Mimi ! give her those from me, and tell her 
I’ll go to see her.” 

“ Come quickly then, if you want to get there in time,” 
said Rodolphe, as he left him. 

When Rodolphe arrived at the hospital, Mimi, who 
could not move hand or foot, leaped upon his neck with 
a glance. 

“ Ah ! there are my flowers ! ” she cried, with the 
smile of gratified longing. 

Rodolphe told her of his pilgrimage to the countryside 

that had been the paradise of their love. 

28 


45 ° 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


“ Dear flowers,” said the poor girl, kissing the violets. 
The bonbons made her very happy too. “ So I am not 
altogether forgotten ! You are very kind, you young 
men. Ah ! I love them all, all your friends,” she said 
to Rodolphe. 

Their interview was almost cheerful. Schaunard and 
Colline had joined Rodolphe. The attendants had to 
send them away, for they stayed beyond the hour al- 
lowed for visits. 

“ Adieu,” said Mimi, “until Thursday; don’t fail me, 
and come early.” 

The next evening, when he returned to his room, 
Rodolphe received a letter from a medical student, an 
intern at the hospital, to whose care he had commended 
the invalid. The letter contained only these words : 

“ My friend, I have bad news for you : No. 8 is dead. 
This morning, when I went into the ward, I found her 
bed empty.” 

Rodolphe fell upon a chair and did not shed a tear. 
When Marcel came home in the evening he found him 
in the same dazed attitude ; the poet pointed to the letter. 

“ Poor girl ! ” said Marcel. 

“ It’s very strange,” said Rodolphe, “ but I feel noth- 
ing at all. Did my love die when I learned that Mimi 
was dead? ” 

“Who knows?” murmured the painter. 

Mimi’s death caused profound sorrow in the club of 
the Bohemians. 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


45 1 

A week later, Rodolphe met on the street the intern 
who had written to tell him of his mistress’s death. 

“ O my dear Rodolphe,” he exclaimed, running to 
meet the poet, “ forgive me the pain I caused you with 
my carelessness.” 

“What do you mean? ” inquired Rodolphe in amaze- 
ment. 

“What, don’t you know, haven’t you seen her? ” 

“ Seen whom? ” cried Rodolphe. 

“Why, Mimi.” 

“What? ” said the poet, turning as pale as death. 

“ I made a mistake. When I wrote you the sad news, 
I was the victim of a misunderstanding ; this is how it 
happened. I was away from the hospital two days. 
When I returned, on the day following your visit, I found 
your friend’s bed empty. I asked the sister where the 
patient was, and she told me that she died during the 
night. This is what had happened. During my absence 
Mimi had been transferred to a different ward. Another 
woman had been put in the number 8 that she left, and 
that woman died the same night. That will explain the 
error I fell into. Some days after I wrote you, I found 
Mimi in an adjoining ward. Your absence had put her 
in a horrible condition ; she gave me a letter for you. I 
carried it to your lodging-house instantly.” 

“My God ! ” cried Rodolphe, “since I have believed 
Mimi to be dead I haven’t been at home. I have been 
lodging with my friends here and there. Mimi alive ! 


452 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


O my God ! what must she think of my absence ! 
Poor girl ! poor girl ! how is she ? when did you see her ? ” 

“ Day before yesterday ; she was neither better nor 
worse ; she is very anxious and thinks you are ill.” 

“Take me to La Piti£ at once,” said Rodolphe, “and 
let me see her.” 

“ Wait here a moment,” said the intern, when they 
were at the door of the hospital ; “ I will go and ask the 
superintendent for a permit for you.” 

Rodolphe waited a quarter of an hour in the vestibule. 
When the intern came back, he took his hand and said : 

“ My friend, imagine that the letter I wrote you a 
week ago was true.” 

“What!” said Rodolphe, leaning against a pillar. 
“ Mimi— ” 

“ At four o’clock this morning.” 

“ Take me to the amphitheatre and let me see her,” 
said Rodolphe. 

“ She is not there,” said the intern. He pointed to a 
large van that stood in the courtyard in front of an ell, 
over the door of which was the word : Amphitheatre. 
“ She is in that van,” he added. 

It was the vehicle in which unclaimed bodies are taken 
to the common grave. 

“ Adieu,” said Rodolphe to the intern. 

“ Shall I go with you? ” the latter asked. 

“No,” said Rodolphe, as he walked away, “ I need to 
be alone.” 





XXIII 

THERE IS BUT ONE YOUTH 

A year after Mimi’s death, Rodolphe and Marcel, 
who had not parted, celebrated with a banquet their 
entrance into society. Marcel, who had at last forced 
his way into the Salon, had exhibited two pictures there, 
one of which had been purchased by a rich Englishman 
who was once Musette’s lover. With the proceeds of 
that sale and of an order from the government, Marcel 
had partly paid off his past debts. He had furnished a 
decent lodging and had a real studio. At about the 
same time, Schaunard and Rodolphe made their bows to 
the public, which makes renown and fortune, — the for- 
mer with a collection of melodies which were sung at all 
the concerts and laid the foundation of his reputation ; 
the latter with a book which occupied the attention of 
the critics for a month. As for Barbemuche, he had 
long since renounced Bohemia, and Gustave Colline had 
inherited some money and made an advantageous mar- 
riage ; he gave evening parties, with music and cake. 

One evening Rodolphe was sitting in his • easy-chair, 

(453) 


454 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


with his feet on his rug, when Marcel entered the room 
in a state of intense excitement. 

“ You can’t guess what has happened to me,” he 
said. 

“No,” said Rodolphe. “ I know that I went to your 
room, that you were certainly in, and that you didn’t 
choose to open the door.” 

“ I heard you. Guess whom I was with.” 

“ How do I know? ” 

“With Musette, who burst in upon me last night 
dressed like a waterman.” 

“ Musette ! you have found Musette again ! ” said 
Rodolphe in a regretful tone. 

“Don’t be alarmed, there’s to be no resumption of 
hostilities; Musette came to me to pass her last night 
in Bohemia.” 

“What?” 

“ She is going to be married.” 

“The devil!” cried Rodolphe. “To whom, O 
Lord?” 

“To a postmaster, who was the guardian of her 
last lover, a queer genius, I should judge. Said Musette 
to him : ‘ My dear monsieur, before giving you my hand 
for good and all and going to the mayor’s office with 
you, I must have a week to myself. I have some busi- 
ness matters to settle, and I want to drink my last glass 
of champagne, dance my last quadrille, and kiss my old 
lover Marcel, who is as good as any other man, so far as 


THERE IS BUT ONE YOUTH 


455 


I can see.’ And the dear creature hunted for me for a 
week. That is how she came to drop in on me last 
evening, just at the very moment I was thinking of her. 
Ah ! my friend, we passed a melancholy night, take it 
all in all ; it wasn’t what it used to be, no, not at all. 
We were like a wretched copy of an artistic masterpiece. 
I have written, a propos of this last separation, a little 
lament which I propose to moan to you, if you’ll allow 
me,” and Marcel began to sing the following lines : 

I spied a swallow yesterday, 

Sweet herald of the springtime fair, 

Then flew my thoughts to her straightway 
Who loved me when she’d time to spare. 

And all that day I stood anear, 

And viewed in contemplation blest, 

The calendar of that dead year 

When we each other’s love possessed. 

: Think not-my youth has vanished yet, 

Or your remembrance sweet effaced ; 

‘ And did you seek my door, Musette, 

My heart would ope to you in haste, 

For at your name its tremblings wake, — 

Muse of inconstancy are you, — 

' Come back again, with me partake 
. The blessed bread of mirth anew. 

The things that filled our little nook, 

Dear friends of love’s sweet days of yore, 

Resume their bright and festal look 
At hope of seeing you once more. 

Come, then, my love, you’ll recognize 
All that your leaving made despair, 

The little bed, the glass of ample size 
Wherein you often quaffed my share. 


45 6 


BOHEMIAN LIFE 


Your white dress you shall don again, 

The one in which you looked so fair, 

And as of old, on Sunday then, 

We’ll seek the woods and ramble there. 

And ’neath the arbor rest, and sip 
The limpid wine again at e’en 
Wherein your lay its wing would dip 
Ere mounting in the air serene. 

Musette, her wandering fancy o’er, 

The joyous carnival at rest, 

One lovely morning sought once more, 

Light-hearted bird, her former nest ; 

But while I kissed the faithless pet, 

My heart was to emotion dead, 

No longer was she my Musette, 

While I was not myself, she said. 

Adieu ! then, go, my cherished one, 

With our last love, you’re truly dead ; 

And ’neath the calendar, our yOuth outrun 
Lies buried, all its pleasures sped. 

But if w r e rake the ashes o’er 
Of happy days its columns show, 

Perchance they would the key restore 
Of our lost Paradise below. 

“Well,” said Marcel, when he had finished, “your 
mind is at rest now ; my love for Musette is dead and 
gone, for the worms 14 have taken hold of it,” he added 
ironically, pointing to the manuscript of his song. 

“Poor boy,” said Rodolphe, “your mind is fighting a 
duel with your heart; take care it doesn’t kill it.” 

“That’s already done,” replied the painter; “it is all 
over with us, old man, we are dead and buried. There’s 
but one youth ! Where do you dine to-night? ” 


EPILOGUE OF RODOLPHE AND MIMI 


457 

“ If you choose,” said Rodolphe, “ we’ll go and dine 
for twelve sous at our old restaurant on Rue du Four, 
where they have plates of village pottery, and where we 
used to be so hungry when we had finished eating.” 

“ Faith, no,” replied Marcel. “ I am willing to look 
at the past, but it must be through a bottle of real wine, 
and sitting in a comfortable chair. What do you expect, 
I am corrupted. I care only for what is good nowa- 
days.” 




NOTES 


1. Page 31. — See Confession de Sylvius , by Champfleury. 

2. Page 75. — That is to say, under the stars. 

3. Page 79. — Cicero’s “maxim” is Nascunlur poetce (poets are 
born ) . Poe Hers means stove-makers. 

4. Page 84. — The reference is to the Commander’s ghost in Mo- 
liere’s Don Juan. 

5. Page 155. — This play upon words is untranslatable. Gens de 
sac , more properly gens de sac et de corde , means villains or mis- 
creants ; gens de sacoches means people with money-bags. 

6. Page 157 — The French word effets — effects — means also prom- 
issory notes. 

7. Page 157. — Benoit , literally blessed. 

8. Page 162. — The allusion is to a celebrated French priest who 
died in 1660, and whose charitable deeds were typical of the Samar- 
itan. 


9. Page 163. — A term implying an unlimited postponement. 

10. Page 187. — It is absolutely impossible to convey any idea of 
the joke in translation. Colline said : “ Je le crains, de chevalf the 
joke consisting in the similarity of sound between crains, and crins 
meaning mane (of a horse). 

11. Page 208. — Another untranslatable play upon words : 
Rodolphe says : “ Et les bottes /” and Colline shouts : “ II y en a 

des bottes /” the words being used in two different senses. 

12. Page 275. — Rodolph’s excitement is caused by Colline’ s pun. 
The French word for cash is comptant , the pronunciation of which 
is almost identical with that of content, with which Colline offends. 

13. Page 285. — The name was probably Birne, which the pho- 
netics of the French language would render almost as in the text — 
Birn’n. 

14. Page 456. — Vers. This word means also verses or poetry. 

459 





















« 





CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

Preface v 

I How the Bohemian Club was Organized 5 

II A Messenger from Providence 51 

III Lenten Amours 63 

IV Ali-Rodolphe ; or, the Turk from Necessity .... 75 

V Charlemagne’s Crown 87 

VI Mademoiselle Musette 101 

VII The Sands of Pactolus 113 

VIII What a Five-Franc Piece Costs 129 

IX The Violets from the Pole 143 

X Cape Tempest 155 

XI A Bohemian Cafe 169 

f 

XII A Reception in Bohemia 183 

XIII The House-warming 211 

XIV Mademoiselle Mimi 223 

XV Donee Gratus 251 

XVI The Passage of the Red Sea 265 

XVII The Toilet of the Graces 279 

XVIII Francine’s Muff 305 

XIX Musette’s Whims 339 

XX Mimi wears Feathers 373 

XXI Romeo and Juliet 397 

XXII Epilogue of the Love-Affairs of Rodolphe and Made- 
moiselle Mimi 41 1 

XXIII There is but One Youth 453 


461 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 

BOHEMIAN LIFE 


FAGH 

PORTRAIT OF HENRI MURGER Fronts. 

MARCEL RECOGNIZES HIS PICTURE 2 

MARCEL HIRING A ROOM 24 

SCHAUNARD FINDS HIS ROOM TENANTED 40 

RODOLPHE VISITS MADEMOISELLE SIDONIE 80 

musette’s love strategy 104 

RODOLPHE MAKES A FIRE WITH HIS MANUSCRIPTS .... 152 

THE BOHEMIANS AT THE CAFE MOMUS 1 76 

THE BOHEMIANS ENTERTAINED 208 

FRANCINE’S DEATHBED 312 


463 






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